THE HOUSE THAT VANISHED
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 15, 1935.
The Shadow gets on the trail of a strange murder in The House That
Vanished.
CHAPTER I
HOUSE OF DOOM
SHEETS of rain were sweeping with blinding downpour as the small coupe
sloshed through the midnight blackness. The glare of headlights was drowned
amid the deluge. Two men, the driver and the passenger beside him, were
straining as they watched the road ahead.
"Ten yards is as far as I can see," remarked the driver, in a tense tone.
"But I'm keeping up to twenty miles an hour. The sooner we're through with
this, the better. How about it, Fred?"
"You're the driver, Jay," replied the passenger. "You pick the speed you
want. You're lucky that you can see ten yards. I can't even spot the road
through this side of the windshield."
"The wiper's a big help," stated Jay. "I'm watching the macadam of the
road. That's what counts when -"
"Hold it!" broke in Fred. "Look out ahead!"
Staring into further blackness, the passenger had seen what the driver had
not. A read lantern was waving in the darkness, its holder completely lost amid
the storm. Jay looked up as he heard Fred's warning. He jammed on the brakes.
The car skidded halfway across the road before it came to a stop.
Fred lowered the window as the red lantern came swinging forward. He
turned on the dome light. As rain drizzled into the coupe, a man thrust his
head and shoulders through the window. A rough but friendly face showed below
the dripping brim of an oilskin hat.
"Didn't want to jolt you off the road, friend," announced the man with the
lantern, "but I had to flag you before you got past. The bridge is out down the
road."
"Have you reported it?" queried Jay, from the driver's wheel.
"That's what I'm doing now," laughed the informant, gruffly. "We were
coming over from Westbury in a truck when we saw that the bridge was gone.
Pete, he started back; but I waded through the creek to get over on this side.
I'm heading into Sheffield, I am."
"You should have telephoned word," declared Jay.
"Ain't no houses along this stretch of road," retorted the man in
oilskins. "Say - who do you reckon you are to be telling me what I ought to
have been doing?"
"My name is Goodling," replied the man at the wheel of the coupe. "Jay
Goodling. I -"
"That's different," growled the man in oilskins, his rough tone
apologetic. "I hadn't no idea who you were. Jay Goodling, eh? The new county
prosecutor. I kind of reckoned Jay Goodling was an older man than you. My
name's Turner, Mr. Goodling."
TURNER thrust a beefy, rain-soaked paw through the window. Goodling smiled
as he received the fellow's shake. The dome light showed Goodling's features as
those of a man in his early thirties; but his face, though youthful, bore the
firmness that befitted his legal position.
"This is Fred Lanford," introduced Goodling, indicating the passenger.
Lanford was younger and less challenging than the prosecutor. "We're on our way
to Westbury. Our best plan is to leave you here to stop other cars while we go
ahead and find some house from which we can telephone."
"Suits me, Mr. Goodling," acknowledged Turner. "Being a night like this
and after midnight, I don't reckon there'll be any more cars along. But I'll
watch for them. Only thing is, where are you going to find the house to call
from?"
"What about that old dirt road that cuts off to the right?" questioned
Goodling. "The one that was the old route into Westbury?"
"Nobody uses it any longer," informed Turner. "Leastwise, nobody except
those folks that live on it. It's like all those other dirt roads leading off.
There's a raft of them that don't go anywhere."
"But there are houses on the old Westbury road. Some of them ought to have
telephones."
"Like as not, Mr. Goodling. Well, I'm staying here, like you said to."
Turner drew away with his lantern. Goodling straightened the car and
started off through the storm while Lanford raised the window and turned out
the dome light.
"The old Westbury road," mused Goodling, as he drove along. "Well, Fred,
we won't have very much trouble finding it. That old sign will tell us when we
get there. It still has its pointer marked Westbury."
"Maybe we'll see the sign," returned Lanford, peering at the sweeping
downpour, "but it's a cinch we won't see the road. Look over there on the
right, Fred. You can't even see the edge. We're liable to be passing a road
right now, without knowing it."
"Look for the sign," ordered Goodling. "It's painted white and it's right
at the turn. You'll see it."
Lanford lowered the window while the car rolled along. Despite the insweep
of the rain, he kept peering at an angle ahead, watching the extreme right
corner of the restricted glare that the headlights offered.
MINUTES passed, Goodling watched the road while Lanford kept a lookout.
Suddenly the passenger uttered. an exclamation. Goodling applied the brakes.
Lanford pointed.
"There's the sign, Jay," he indicated. "You can even read it. Westbury.
But you'll have to fish for the road. I can't make it out, even though I know
it's here."
Goodling backed the car a dozen feet; then turned the wheel to the right.
As he started forward, the headlights, swinging to the right, revealed the
beginning of a curved dirt road. As the coupe rolled from the macadam, the
winding course of the old highway showed its rocks and ruts.
In second gear, traveling at fifteen miles an hour, Goodling fumed as he
tried to control the coupe. The road was upgrade; down it poured a sweeping
torrent. At every dozen yards, the car went into a temporary skid.
"Like driving through a creek," asserted Goodling, grimly. "Keep that
window open, Fred. Look for a house - the first one you see."
"That's a tough assignment, Jay," returned Lanford. "These farmers turn in
early. If their lights are out, how are we going to see their houses?"
"Watch for entrances. Maybe you'll see a driveway."
"Not much chance. I couldn't even see this road when we came to it."
"Well, there's always a possibility. If you keep watching, you'll -"
Goodling ended abruptly. The coupe had gone into a skid. This was a bad
one; water sloshed high as the car jabbed toward the left of the road. Front
wheels hit an embankment; the car careened. Goodling held tight to the wheel,
releasing the brakes momentarily while Lanford gripped the door.
Instead of toppling, the coupe slipped sidewise. The right side jounced;
then the wheels struck a level space. Goodling applied the brakes as the car
rolled from the road, headed directly to the left of the highway. The coupe
came to a slithering stop.
THE two men blinked as they stared straight ahead. They had gained the
luckiest of breaks. Directly in front of the headlights was the surface of a
muddy driveway. Beyond it, at the edge of glow, the outline of porch steps.
"How was that for hitting it?" chuckled Goodling. "Right into the front
yard. We wanted a house and we found one. Say - that was a lucky skid."
"Turn out the lights," suggested Lanford. "Maybe we'll be able to see if
anyone is home."
Goodling complied. His pressure of the light switch brought thick
blackness up ahead. But as the men stared through the rain-swished windshield,
they saw the sign that they wanted.
A tiny crack of light gave dim indication of a window. It came from the
side of a lowered blind. It was further than the distance to the steps. This
glimmer was from a front window that opened on the porch. It was proof that the
house was occupied.
"Come on," suggested Goodling. "I'll leave the lights off. We won't need
them. Get out on your side, Fred, and I'll meet you at the front of the car."
The two men disembarked. Splashing through mud, they groped their way to
the front of the coupe. From there they stumbled forward until they struck the
house steps. The sweeping beat of the rain ended as they gained the shelter
beneath a porch roof.
Goodling struck a match. The flame showed a front door. The youthful
prosecutor approached and hammered against the barrier. While he waited for an
answer, he spoke to his companion.
"Do you know, Fred," remarked Goodling, "I would wager that neither of us
would recognize this place if we saw it in daylight. Steps - a porch - a window
- that's all. We don't know if the house is a big one or a small one."
"Or whether it's stone or wood," laughed Lanford. "We do know that it's
somewhere on the old road to Westbury. We saw the sign. But outside of that -"
He broke off. A sound was coming from beyond the door. Listening, the
young men heard the grate of rusty bolts. Above the sweep and beat of the rain
the sound was strangely ominous.
Then the door swung inward. A burst of light glared from the hall within.
It showed the strained faces of the two arrivals. It also revealed the figure
of the person who had answered their knock.
A HUGE, stoop-shouldered fellow was standing just within the doorway, his
big fists clenched. Glowering eyes peered from a scarred face. Bloated lips
showed a fierce scowl of challenge. The man spoke harshly:
"Come in."
Almost mechanically, the two obeyed. Hardly were they across the threshold
before the huge man thrust the door shut and pressed the bolts. Swinging about,
he faced the two who were watching them. He uttered a gruff laugh.
"Go in there" - the man pointed to the door of a dimly lighted room -
"while I go and tell that you are here. Stay in that room."
The eyes retained their glower. The big fists tightened. Fred Lanford
turned about instinctively and entered the door that the huge fellow had
indicated. Jay Goodling, almost ready to meet the man's challenge, decided
better. He turned about and followed Lanford.
The room was a parlor, sparse of furnishing; but its few chairs were
expensive ones. Goodling sat down; Lanford followed suit. Both watched the door
through which they had come. The big man was still standing there; his attitude
that of a huge hound ready to make an attack.
Neither Goodling nor Lanford made a move. Satisfied at last, the big man
stepped away. His figure passed from view, while the visitors still stared,
like statues in their chairs.
The big man's heavy footsteps faded in the uncarpeted hall. The listeners
heard a sound that resembled the creaking of a stairway. Then came silence,
tempered only by the unceasing patter of the heavy rain upon the outside porch.
The glimmer of two floor lamps showed the room in somber outline. A deep
depression had fallen upon those two men who had stepped into this outlandish
setting.
The parlor seemed unreal, like a fanciful room plucked from a terrifying
dream. The hush that filled it was a portion of the silence that seemed to
pervade the whole building.
Neither Goodling nor Lanford spoke during those first minutes of ghastly
silence. Yet the thoughts that they held were identical, forced by the pall of
these strange surroundings.
Stupefied by the atmosphere that gripped them, these chance arrivals felt
themselves within a house of doom.
CHAPTER II
LIVING AND DEAD
"WHAT do you make of it, Jay?"
Fred Lanford whispered the question huskily. Tense and nervous, he had
managed to find his voice. He was looking at Jay Goodling as he spoke.
Goodling held up his hand for silence. The youthful prosecutor had become
stolid. He was listening for sounds that might indicate the return of the huge
servant who had introduced them to this room.
Hearing nothing, Goodling arose from his chair. He stared toward the open
door that led to the hallway. Then he looked about the room and spied two heavy
curtains that indicated a wide doorway at the rear.
Directly opposite the front window, these draperies showed that there was
another apartment adjoining the parlor. Softly, Goodling trod in that
direction. He drew back the curtains to disclose a pair of sliding doors. These
barriers were shut.
"I wonder what's in back of these," he remarked quietly. "Suppose I take a
look, Fred, while we're waiting."
"It might mean trouble, Jay," rejoined Lanford. "We've barged into
something by accident. The best thing we can do is to sit tight."
"And wait for trouble? I don't see it that way, Fred. We did not come here
as intruders. We made one mistake by not asserting ourselves before we entered."
"If you start prying, Jay, you'll be making a new mistake."
"You forget my status, Fred. This house is certainly within the limits of
Sheffield County. My position as prosecutor entitles me to -"
He broke off, swinging from the sliding doors. The curtains dropped as
Goodling released them. The prosecutor had heard a sound from the hallway.
Lanford joined him in staring toward the door through which they had entered
this parlor.
STANDING in the doorway was a dark-haired girl of twenty. The beauty of
her face was apparent despite her paleness. She was attired in a black
traveling dress; like her hair, the darkness of this costume accentuated her
pallor.
Goodling bowed and smiled. Lanford came to his feet. He was smiling also;
but the girl's face remained troubled. The girl darted a quick look back into
the hall; then stepped into the parlor.
"You must go!" she said, tensely. "It is not safe here. Go. At once.
Before Croy returns."
"Croy?" quizzed Goodling. "You mean the big fellow who opened the door for
us?"
The brunette nodded.
"I think that we'll stay," decided Goodling. "We came here as strangers;
but we were told that our arrival would be announced. I think that we are
entitled to something of an explanation."
The girl shook her head.
"You don't agree with me?" questioned Goodling. "Well, perhaps if I
explain who we are and how we happened to come here, you will understand the
circumstances. May I do so, Miss -"
Goodling paused quizzically, hoping that the girl would announce her name,
just as she had stated the name of the servant. Instead, the brunette continued
to shake her head.
"I can not tell you who I am," she declared emphatically. "I can only say
that you would be wise to leave. If you go, I can explain your departure. You
must leave at once."
This time it was Goodling who shook his head. The girl sighed, hopelessly,
and looked appealingly toward Lanford. For a moment, Fred was on the point of
arguing with Goodling; but he saw the determined look on the prosecutor's face
and knew that persuasion would be useless.
"Very well," said the girl, wearily. "I have advised you to go. Your own
stubbornness will be to blame if your stay here becomes unpleasant."
She turned about and started toward the door. Goodling moved forward,
about to speak. He saw the girl stop short; he did the same. A man had stepped
into view from the hallway.
THIS chap was the antithesis of Croy. He was of no more than medium
height; he was light in build, almost frail. His face was a sensitive one, but
exceedingly pale. His left arm was in a sling. Freshly wrapped bandages ran
from his wrist to his elbow.
Yet there was sternness in the pale man's gaze as he looked to the girl.
His eyes, brilliant in their pallid setting, were half accusing, half inquiring.
"Why did you come in here?" the man asked calmly. "You knew that these
visitors were to be announced. You should not have talked to them."
"I saw Croy admit them," returned the girl. "I came to warn them, Daggart.
I told them it would be best for them to leave."
The pale man winced at mention of his name. Then his stern expression
returned.
"I shall talk with them," he announced. "It would be best for you to
return upstairs."
"Very well," challenged the girl. "I shall talk with Mr. Kermal, since you
have come from him, Daggart."
Croy - Daggart - Kermal - the three names were buzzing through the minds
of both Goodling and Lanford as the girl departed into the hall. Goodling no
longer felt tense. He drew a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it as he
faced Daggart.
The pale man shifted his arm in his sling; then spoke quietly to Goodling
and Lanford. Daggart's tone was reserved, yet friendly.
"You are strangers here," he told the two men. "Your unexpected arrival,
at so late an hour, was a bit disconcerting to our servant. That is why he
ushered you in here so abruptly.
"I am the secretary of the gentleman who is the master of this house. I
have come to inform you that he will be here shortly. Kindly be seated and
forget the odd incidents which followed your arrival. The master of the house
will interview you presently."
Goodling nodded as he sat down. Lanford took a chair; Daggart bowed and
walked out into the hallway. They heard the secretary's footsteps fade toward
the distant stairway.
"Fred!" Goodling's whisper was tense. "That fellow didn't intend to come
in here. He was sent down to look us over."
"Why did he enter then?" queried Lanford, in a low tone.
"Because the girl was talking to us," explained Goodling. "Daggart has
gone up to report. That big fellow, Croy, is still upstairs. We'll hear this
man Kermal when he comes down. We've a few minutes yet."
"For what?"
"To take a look around. Come."
RISING, Goodling made for the curtains at the rear of the room. Spreading
them, he tried the sliding doors. There was a catch on the other side of the
barriers; but the doors were old and shaky. Goodling juggled them; the curtains
muffled the sound.
"Go easy, Jay," warned Lanford. "Somebody's liable to hear you -"
A click ended Lanford's statement. The catch had juggled loose. Goodling
slid one door open, slowly and carefully. The two men peered into a dimly
lighted living room.
The new apartment afforded a beautiful setting. Contrasted with the stuffy
front parlor, it was luxurious. Tapestries adorned the walls. Antique Oriental
rugs were spread about the floor. The furniture, though of light construction,
was exquisite in its workmanship.
Goodling noted chairs and a large couch, the back of which was toward the
parlor. He saw a writing desk in the corner. By the farther wall, near a door
beyond, was a Russian wolf-hound, reposing on a large mat.
The dog, apparently, had been trained to accept strangers, for it merely
raised its head to survey the intruders; then placed its nose between its paws.
Goodling shrugged his shoulders as he stepped a few paces into the room. He was
about to turn and go back into the parlor when Lanford uttered a hoarse whisper:
"Look!"
Goodling stared as Lanford pointed. From their new angle, they could see
just past the end of the couch. There, on the floor, they spied a man's feet.
The tips of the shoes were pointed upward.
Goodling sprang forward, Lanford close behind him. Reaching the end of the
couch, they stared in horror. The feet were those of a dead body. A man almost
as huge as the servant, Croy, was lying on his back, his unseeing eyes staring
upward.
"Who - who is he?" gasped Lanford. "Another - another servant? Or - or
someone who came here - like ourselves -"
Goodling held up a hand, warning for silence. He approached and kneeled
beside the dead body. Lanford joined him. They surveyed a face that had once
been handsome, despite the over-largeness of its features. Death, however, had
given a ghastly ugliness to the countenance.
The man had black hair, tanned skin, large nose and square jaw. He had
eyes that seemed dark, despite the conspicuous whiteness that their bulge
produced, and heavy black eyebrows. These were points that Goodling checked
mentally.
The prosecutor raised the dead man's right arm. It swung stiffly; then
thumped as if on a spring, when Goodling released it. Goodling noticed that the
blue-serge coat was buttoned. He opened it; then grunted as he saw the man's
vest. A gaping, ugly wound showed upon the dead man's breast.
"Shot through the heart," whispered Goodling. "Look at those singes, Fred.
Close range - probably a revolver of large caliber -"
"Shh!" gasped Lanford, faintly. "Someone is coming - down the staircase -"
Goodling threw the coat front over the wound. He popped up from beside the
corpse. Lanford was pale, shaking, unable to respond. Goodling caught his arm
and dragged him toward the parlor.
Footsteps were already in the hall as the two reached the front room.
There was no time to close the sliding doors. Goodling thrust Lanford into a
chair; then pulled a curtain over the adjoining door. He was lighting a
cigarette when the footsteps reached the hallway door.
THE man who entered was a newcomer. Though almost six feet tall, he looked
shorter because of his thick-set build. He was well dressed, but his hair was
shaggy and unkempt. His face was sallow; his tousled hair an iron-gray.
"Mr. Kermal?" inquired Goodling, casually.
"Yes." The bulky man's voice was a harsh rasp. His features, though well
formed, looked ugly as he scowled. "So you know my name, eh? The girl told you?"
"She did," replied Goodling, with a nod. He was stalling, so that Kermal
would not notice Lanford, who was staring, pale faced, from his chair. "Allow
me, sir, to introduce myself. Also to tell you why I came here."
"That is not necessary!" Kermal's tone was fierce. "I do not care why you
came! Your actions here are what concerns me!"
"Our actions?" queried Goodling, feigning surprise.
"Yes," sneered Kermal. "My servant heard you from the stairs. He realized
that you had managed to pry into the next room. He has entered there already."
Kermal looked toward the curtains. Goodling wheeled about. He saw Croy,
coming through. The servant's face looked even uglier than before. Croy nodded
to Kermal.
"You are sure they saw?" quizzed Kermal.
"Coat unbuttoned," responded Croy, gruffly.
Kermal smiled. He was looking at Lanford. Fred's paleness was a giveaway
that he had seen the corpse in the next room.
"Well, gentlemen," decided Kermal, "who you are and why you came here does
not matter, now. Circumstances compel me to keep you in temporary custody until
-"
He did not finish the sentence. Goodling was bounding forward uttering a
sharp cry to Lanford to aid him. From his pocket, the prosecutor was whipping a
stub-nosed revolver, a weapon that he always carried.
CROY hurtled in from the curtains. Before Lanford could intervene, the
servant was upon Goodling. Seizing the prosecutor as one would pounce upon a
trouble-making child, Croy twisted Goodling's gun away. Then, as the prosecutor
still struggled, Croy hurled him across the room. Goodling's head thumped the
wall. He rolled half stunned, upon the floor.
Goodling's gun had struck thin carpeting. Lanford bounced from his chair
and seized it. He came up, aiming at Croy. Again, the big servant was quick in
action.
Lunging furiously, he hoisted Lanford upward and backward. Fred hit the
chair back and sprawled to the floor, the chair rolling upon him. Like
Goodling, Lanford lost hold of the revolver and lay half senseless from the
force of the blow.
"Turn out the lights," ordered Kermal. Arms folded, the shaggy-haired man
was standing at the door. "Watch these fellows, Croy, until I return."
Croy extinguished the lamps. Standing by the door, he blocked most of the
dim hallway light. Jay Goodling, slowly recovering, heard footsteps as they
returned. Trying to rise, Goodling saw Croy enter. Then he felt himself in the
big servant's clutch.
Something was happening to Lanford. Figures had entered; Goodling saw the
flicker of a flashlight and caught the tones of whispered voices. He struggled
against Croy; the big man's grasp tightened.
His head thrust back, Goodling could see nothing but the ceiling. He felt
hands tugging at his coat sleeve; then came the rip of the shirt sleeve beneath
it. Again, he fought with Croy. It was useless.
The flashlight blinked on Jay Goodling's bare arm. Croy's grip tightened.
A hand appeared in the light, bearing a hypodermic syringe. The needle jabbed
deep into Goodling's flesh.
Croy still gripped the victim as others stole from the darkened room. Then
the servant's hold relaxed. Jay Goodling had subsided. Croy arose and went to
the hall. He nodded to Kermal, who was standing there alone. Kermal pointed to
the front door.
The servant returned to the parlor and reappeared with Lanford's limp form
over his shoulder. Kermal unbolted the front door. Croy carried Lanford out into
the driving rain. A few minutes later, he returned, entered the parlor and
picked up Goodling.
Croy carried the prosecutor out into the darkness. Kermal chuckled as he
bolted the front door. Listening, the shaggy-haired man heard the roar of a
motor. Croy had started Goodling's coupe. The car was backing out into the din
road.
However Kermal had hoped to deal with these intruders, the fight had
definitely forced him to one plan. Goodling and Lanford had been overpowered in
the fray. Both were doped. Croy had removed them at his master's order.
Whatever Kermal's plans might be, the bulky man seemed satisfied with his
procedure. His chuckle sounded in the gloomy hall as he crossed the uncarpeted
floor toward the stairway beyond that living room in which a man lay dead.
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW ARRIVES
IT was morning in Manhattan. A quiet, round-faced man was seated at an
office desk. From beyond his window loomed the sky line of the city; but the
view did not concern this worker. The round-faced man was studying a map which
showed the terrain about the town of Sheffield.
A rap sounded at the door. The man at the desk folded the map then gave an
order to enter. A stenographer appeared.
"Mr. Vincent is calling," said the girl. "Shall I tell him to come in, Mr.
Mann?"
"Certainly," responded Mann. "At once."
A few minutes later, a clean-cut young man was facing Mann in the inner
office. Vincent's appearance was one that denoted an active temperament quite a
contrast to the lethargic expression of Mann's chubby visage.
Yet both were workers in the same service. Rutledge Mann and Harry Vincent
were agents of The Shadow. Mann, an investment broker, was a contact who relayed
orders to the active aids such as Harry.
"You have seen this clipping?" inquired Mann. "It appeared in this
morning's newspaper."
"I saw it," smiled Harry, as he viewed the item that Mann passed him, "but
I passed it up as something of a hoax. Two men reporting a murder in an isolated
house, only to find that the building had vanished."
"Read more closely," suggested Mann. "You will note that one of the two
men was the county prosecutor."
"That's right," acknowledged Harry, studying the clipping. "Say - that
puts a new light on the case, doesn't it? This ought to have been front page
stuff, Mann."
"It will be soon," stated the broker. "The New York newspapers are sending
men to Sheffield. Clyde Burke is going for the Classic."
"Burke has already supplied further details," stated Mann, unfolding the
map on his desk. "So I suggest, Vincent, that you listen to my full account. I
can amplify facts that the newspapers merely skimmed over in the first story.
Like yourself, they took it as a hoax at the start.
"Here" - Mann pointed to the map - "is the town of Sheffield. A paved road
runs southward from Sheffield, then curves west and reaches Westbury, some dozen
miles distant. You will notice that there are dirt roads going to the right from
the main highway. One of them - this one - is important. It is the old road to
Westbury."
Harry nodded.
"Saturday night, after midnight," resumed Mann, "Jay Goodling, county
prosecutor and his friend, Fred Lanford, were riding along the paved road. They
were going southward, from Sheffield to Westbury, when a man named Turner
flagged them with a lantern. Somewhere in this neighborhood."
Mann tapped the map with his pencil. Harry watched while the investment
broker made a mark, then moved the pencil to a point about three miles south.
"This is Roaring Creek," he explained. "The bridge had gone out during the
heavy storm. Turner had hiked up to the road to stop other cars. He was heading
into Sheffield. Goodling and Lanford decided to take the old Westbury road,
which turns off before the bridge."
HARRY noted four roads going to the right between Mann's pencil mark and
the creek. Only one, the third, was a through dirt highway. It was the old road
to Westbury.
"Goodling and Lanford found the old Westbury road," explained Mann. "They
identified it by the conspicuous sign that marks it. Driving up the road, they
discovered a house. They entered, in the hope of finding a telephone.
"The servant who admitted them was named Croy. They also encountered a man
named Daggart, ostensibly a secretary, whose arm was in a sling, indicating a
recent wound. The supposed owner of the house, whom they likewise met, was
named Kermal."
"What about the girl?" questioned Harry, holding up the clipping. "This
story deals chiefly with the mysterious brunette, who vanished along with the
house. Talks about the whole affair as if it had been a pipe dream."
"The girl," replied Mann, "was the person who mentioned the names of the
others. Her name, however, was not learned. She advised Goodling and Lanford to
leave."
"But instead, they snooped around and found the body?"
"Yes. The report is correct. They found a dead man, who had been shot
through the heart. Goodling and Lanford started a fight. They were overpowered.
Goodling recalls that he was jabbed with a hypodermic needle. Lanford was too
groggy to remember.
"That happened after midnight, Saturday. Shortly before noon, Sunday,
Goodling and Lanford were found, half asleep, in the coupe. The car was about
fifty yards from the washed-out bridge.
"As county prosecutor, Goodling has extraordinary powers. As soon as he
was sufficiently roused to remember his story coherently, he ordered a search
for the house. A dozen men scoured the old Westbury road. They failed to find
the building at all."
"There are no houses along that road?"
"There are a dozen. But all are occupied by persons who are well known in
the vicinity. Goodling and Lanford spoke of an extravagantly furnished living
room. None of the houses can match that description. The report, Vincent, is
not exaggerated. The mystery house vanished over night."
"But suppose that -"
Mann smiled as he held up his hand. He drew a watch from his pocket and
nodded as he consulted the time.
"You can catch the one o'clock train for Sheffield," he stated. "You will
find Burke there, representing the Classic. He will introduce you as a
representative of the National Press Association. He will supply you with
credentials."
WHILE Harry Vincent was on his way from Rutledge Mann's office, a singular
event was taking place in another portion of Manhattan. A bluish light was
gleaming in the corner of a black-walled room. Long white hands were unfolding
a map that resembled Mann's.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. He, too, was marking points in the
neighborhood of Sheffield and Westbury. The Shadow, like Harry Vincent, had
questions that needed answering. His whispered laugh betokened that fact.
A pointing finger touched the town marked Westbury. It traced a northeast
course toward Sheffield, following the line of the old road. The Shadow's
finger stopped.
Although Goodling and Lanford had started their journey from Sheffield.
the spot of their strange adventure had been nearer the town of Westbury.
Furthermore, Westbury was larger than Sheffield, despite the fact that the
latter town was the county seat.
Long hands folded the map. The bluish light clicked off. The Shadow's
laugh sounded in the darkness. Shivering tones betokened his urge for new
adventure. When silence reigned within the black-walled room, The Shadow had
departed.
Like his agents, he was faring forth to the mysterious terrain from which
a house had vanished. But he had chosen to make his starting point the town of
Westbury, in preference to Sheffield. Burke and Vincent could cover that town
for the present.
IT was late in the afternoon when Harry Vincent strolled into the lobby of
the Weatherby Hotel, the old-fashioned inn that constituted Sheffield's sole
hotel. He learned that Clyde Burke was in a room on the third floor. Harry went
up and rapped on the door. Hearing a call to enter, he stepped in to find Clyde
seated at a typewriter.
"Stuff for the Classic," chuckled Clyde. "Close the door, Harry. I've got
your credentials. I thought you'd be in on the train I just heard chugging in."
"Anything new on the house?" questioned Harry.
"Not a thing," replied Clyde, seriously. "I've talked with Goodling. He
won't go into further details until this evening. He's holding a conference in
his office."
"Do you think he has learned something?"
"Yes. But not about the house. He's still mystified on that point. The
place has vanished."
"Have you talked with Lanford?"
"I'm going to. Before he comes into the conference. He lives out in the
country and he's still sleeping off his dopey jag. They must have given him a
bigger dose than they did Goodling."
"Have they searched for the house today?"
"Sure. They started at Sunday noon. Here it is, Monday afternoon, and
they've just finished."
Harry considered. Clyde watched him rub his chin. The reporter laughed.
"I know what you're thinking," declared Clyde. "They ought to have looked
along the other roads. Well, they did; but they had no luck."
"No houses?"
"A few. But occupied by persons whom they knew, except for some empties.
They knew who the owners of the empty houses were, and they've checked on them.
All pass muster."
Clyde produced a road map. He had dotted it at various points. The marks
indicated houses.
"Here's the old Gallivan house," he stated. "Been empty for two years; but
it's three miles up the Westbury road. Goodling is sure that he and Lanford
couldn't have traveled that far. One mile was about the limit.
"This house is empty. An artist named Brooks left it a month ago, to make
a trip to California. But it's not on the old Westbury road. It's on one of
those other roads. See? The first one past the Westbury road.
"Same thing with this house. It was owned by a farmer named Buckley. It's
on the first road before you reach the old Westbury road; and it was burned out
last fall. The big point, Harry, is that Goodling and Lanford both saw the old
sign that points to Westbury. It's there, big as life. I went down to look at
it this afternoon."
"But what about tire marks?" questioned Harry. "Those ought to tell
something. Those dirt roads must have been mighty muddy."
"Too muddy," replied Clyde. "They all led down into the paved road. They
were raging torrents on Saturday night. Completely washed out by morning.
Nothing left to go by.
"You can take it or leave it, Harry. The cold truth is that a house is
missing. It's a bigger problem than a stolen bass drum. It has me guessing,
just like everyone else."
HARRY was about to speak when the telephone bell rang. Clyde picked up the
telephone from beside his typewriter. As he answered, Harry saw a steady
expression appear upon the reporter's face.
Briefly, in short sentences, Clyde reported the same facts that he had
given Harry. His words were prompted by questions that he heard across the
wire. When the call was ended, Clyde hung up and nodded as he looked toward
Harry
"It will pass as a long-distance call from the Classic," explained Clyde.
"I talked like I was giving dope for a story. But that call was from a place
nearer than New York."
"Westbury?" guessed Harry
Again Clyde nodded. Those quiet tones that he had heard could have come
from only one person: The Shadow.
"I'm to see Lanford," stated Clyde. "I'll introduce you to Goodling after
dinner; then I'll cut out and meet Lanford before he comes in to the
conference. You can stick with Goodling."
Clyde dug into a suitcase to obtain Harry's credentials. Harry stood
looking from the window, studying the town of Sheffield, beneath the darkening,
clouded afternoon sky. A smile showed upon Harry's lips.
For Harry could guess what The Shadow's work would be while his agents
were engaged in checking on developments here. Harry's hunch was that The
Shadow was planning a prompt search for the vanished house wherein Jay Goodling
and Fred Lanford had encountered strange adventure.
Would The Shadow succeed in that strange quest that had baffled scores of
searchers? Harry Vincent believed it probable; yet he could not fathom what The
Shadow's course could be. For in all his service as an agent of The Shadow,
Harry Vincent had never encountered a case with so strange a beginning as this.
Men who knew the ground could offer no answer to the disappearance of a
house with all its furnishings. The Shadow, here for the first time, following
only the reports of others, was apparently faced by an impossible task.
So Harry Vincent reasoned; but his own arguments failed. Greater even than
reason was Harry's confidence in The Shadow's amazing power of deduction.
CHAPTER IV
THE VANISHED HOUSE
ALL lay quiet along the old Westbury road. Sultry afternoon had brought a
pall to the countryside where searchers had given up their vain hunt for a
vanished house. Though an hour still remained until sunset, the features of the
landscape appeared hazy and obscure.
There was motion at the side of the dirt road. Steadily, yet almost
unnoticeably, a figure was moving along the highway. It was that of a tall
individual who wore a dark suit. His chiseled features were scarcely
discernible in that modulated light.
The stroller was hatless. He was carrying a flexible briefcase. He might
have been some chance wayfarer taking this route between Westbury and
Sheffield. Actually, he was here with a more definite purpose. The Shadow was
going over the vainly searched terrain.
Walking along the old road from Westbury, The Shadow had spied various
houses. All were ones which had already been investigated by the local
authorities. Casual surveys had satisfied The Shadow that none were of interest.
The Shadow's goal was the spot where the old road met the paved one. He
wanted to see the point at which Jay Goodling and Fred Lanford had turned into
the path of weird adventure. The Shadow's pace had quickened; it slowed as he
passed a slight bend. Directly ahead was the main highway.
Conspicuous at the junction point was the sign that pointed to Westbury.
The white post and large-lettered placard stood straight upward. As The Shadow
surveyed the sign he was impressed by its total absence of tilt.
Odd, for a sign like this one. The old Westbury road had gone into disuse;
yet its sign had acquired none of the leaning so common with the old-fashioned
markers seen on country highways.
Though the sign was obviously top-heavy; though the heavy rain had
softened the ground, the post still maintained its vertical position. The
Shadow stepped forward to examine it more closely
HE made a prompt discovery. The post hole was enlarged at the surface of
the ground. This indicated that the sign must once have tilted slightly.
Placing his briefcase aside, The Shadow gripped the post and tugged it upward.
At first the wooden upright refused to yield. Then it came loose. The
Shadow hoisted the post up into the light. Again his eyes noted something;
slowly he let the post slide down into the hole.
The pointed lower portion of the post was stained with dirt; that was
natural, since it had been imbedded in the ground for some years. But the
margin of the dirt stain was not at the ground level. When the post dropped
back into place, a full five inches of white paint sank with the dirt-stained
portion.
Thumping the post, The Shadow forced it farther down. It stuck and
remained upright. The Shadow stepped back; his straight lips delivered a soft,
whispered laugh. He had made the discovery that was to serve him as a vital
clue.
Someone had recently removed that post. Afterward, the sign had been
replaced. Before its removal, the sign had been slightly tilted. The man who
had replaced it had not taken any chances on trying to duplicate the lean.
Instead, he had driven the post further into the rain-softened ground. He
had left it upright, hard in place, so that no one would suspect that the post
had been loose. That person had lowered the height of the signboard by his
action. Yet none of the searchers, viewing the marker, had realized its new
condition.
A good job. One that had been a perfect deception. Only The Shadow,
delving into the possibilities of this strange case, had given thought to the
signpost as a likely element in the mystery.
The Shadow had concluded that it would have been easier to move a signpost
than a house. Since both had figured in the episode of Saturday, midnight, he
had started with the post as his first objective.
The sign, at present, was standing at the beginning of the old Westbury
road, exactly where it belonged. Yet chances were that Goodling and Lanford had
seen it elsewhere. The Shadow drew a map from his pocket and studied it in the
fading light.
Following south from the old Westbury road, there were two more dirt roads
that led off to the right before the paved highway crossed the creek. Those were
logically the ones to be investigated. Picking up his briefcase, The Shadow
started southward at a brisk pace.
The paved highway was deserted. The bridge had not yet been repaired.
Travelers were using an entirely different route between Sheffield and
Westbury. There had been searchers hereabouts, but The Shadow had learned from
Clyde Burke that the hunt was ended. Hence he ran no risk of encountering
searchers.
HALF a mile down the paved highway, The Shadow found the next dirt road.
It looked very much like the old Westbury road; but the map showed that it
merely ran into an old abandoned farm, a few miles from the main highway. It
was called Dobson's Road on the map.
The Shadow stopped at the edge of Dobson's Road. He picked the spot where
a sign would naturally stand, if this road were marked like the old highway to
Westbury. Stooping beside the underbrush, The Shadow pressed back a matted mass
of soggy turf. Again his soft laugh sounded.
The Shadow had found a large posthole. This second clue told him where the
Westbury sign had been during its absence from the road where it belonged. The
Shadow pushed the turf back into place. He started along Dobson's Road.
The week-end rain had completely obliterated any tire traces along this
road. But The Shadow needed no such indications. He was watching to the left.
Three quarters of a mile brought him to his objective.
Just past a slight embankment, The Shadow discovered an old driveway.
Following it, he made a slight turn; then, swinging to the opposite angle, he
faced a large house that loomed among trees.
At one corner was a porch, which had a roof but no steps. Approaching
closely, The Shadow noticed a dry fringe of grass along the porch edge. This
was a token that steps had been here until recently.
This was one of the empty houses that Clyde Burke had spoken about to
Harry Vincent. It was the house that had been occupied by Brooks, the artist.
The Shadow knew that it must be the house that Goodling and Lanford had visited.
The prosecutor and his friend had skidded through the driveway. They
thought they had stopped facing the front of the building. Instead, they had
been headed directly toward the side.
Realizing that, the occupants of the house had removed the steps after
they had disposed of Goodling and Lanford. Small wonder that searchers had
passed up this house entirely. It was not on the Westbury road. It was empty.
It did not answer the vague description that Goodling and Lanford had given.
STEPPING UP to the porch, The Shadow tried the door. He found it locked.
He opened it easily with a skeleton key. The inside of the door showed no bolts
whatever. But as The Shadow used a flashlight for close examination, he
discovered spots that had been dabbed with paint.
Another touch. The removal of the bolts aided the deception. As The Shadow
looked through the gloomy hall, he understood fully how difficult it would be
for anyone to recognize the place after one visit.
The main portion of the house was to The Shadow's left. This was nothing
more than a long rear hall. People coming in from the actual front would reach
this hall from other passages. It would not answer the description given by
Goodling and Lanford.
There was a doorway to The Shadow's right. Having the proper perspective,
The Shadow decided that this must lead to the room which Goodling and Lanford
had mistaken for a front parlor. The Shadow entered and found the room empty.
He saw a wide opening into another room. He went through.
Clyde Burke had given The Shadow full details of the house as Goodling and
Lanford had remembered it. Their description had been received at the Classic
office before Clyde had started to Sheffield.
The Shadow knew, therefore, that he was in the living room where the two
men had seen the dead body. But nothing remained to indicate that this had once
been an apartment of luxury.
Old books, newspapers and magazines were scattered upon the bare floor.
Cracked walls showed where tapestries had been. Empty boxes occupied the
corners. Everything had been done to make this look like a rear storeroom in an
empty house.
Half shrouded in dusk, The Shadow reviewed his discoveries. He saw the
game, even though he could not supply the full details. A man had been killed
in this house. The occupants had decided to make a get-away.
This house was on Dobson's Road, the first dirt road past the old route to
Westbury. Someone in the house had gone out in the storm to remove the Westbury
sign and place it on Dobson's Road. After they had departed with all their
luggage, the sign had been put back in its original place.
Had this been to deceive such chance wayfarers as Goodling and Lanford?
Perhaps. It had certainly succeeded in their case. But The Shadow could see
chances for a deeper purpose. He decided, however, that such considerations
could wait until later.
Opening a window in the big room, he dropped out to the rear of the house.
Striding across sodden ground, he stopped to examine traces that interested him.
Here, off at the rear, was an old abandoned path that was wide enough to
accommodate an automobile. It wound off through the trees toward the next dirt
road.
THE SHADOW followed the path. Flattened turf showed that a car might have
traveled here; but the rain had obliterated tire marks. A quarter of a mile
brought The Shadow to the last of the parallel dirt roads. Here, in a deep rut,
he found another clue.
It was the broad mark of a tire with an old-fashioned, dotted tread. Large
enough to have been made by a light truck. Using a bit of string, The Shadow
measured this mark. He made an estimate of the tire's width.
Stepping up to an embankment, The Shadow looked forward and saw the hazy
course of Roaring Creek. He gained a distant view of the broken bridge on the
main highway.
Even at such long range, he could discern the muddy turbulence of the
torrent that still raged through the gap. Near that spot where disaster
threatened was the place where Goodling and Lanford had been found on Sunday
morning.
Something in the view must have impressed The Shadow, for his laugh came
as a spontaneous utterance. Turning, he made his way back to the abandoned
house. Climbing through the window, he began an inspection of the ground floor.
In the front of the building, The Shadow discovered a stairway. There was
an obscure closet beneath it. The Shadow blinked his flashlight and tugged at
the closed door. It opened. The rays of the light revealed an object in the
closet's depths.
It was a small steamer trunk. Locked, but easily opened. Entering the
closet, The Shadow blinked his flashlight on the trunk. There he discerned the
remnants of steamship labels and stickers that bore the names of European
hotels.
Another turn of the flashlight showed the end of the trunk. The Shadow saw
the initials M. L. D. Using a pick, he unlocked the trunk and opened it. The
trunk had a tray which contained various odd papers.
Steamship menus, theater programs in various languages, clippings from
foreign newspapers. The Shadow raised the tray to find the main portion of the
trunk empty. Replacing the tray, he rummaged among the papers and discovered a
small stack of hotel bills.
There were all made out to Miss Myra Dolthan, of New York. With them, The
Shadow found an envelope which had once contained a letter. It bore an American
postage stamp. It was addressed to Miss Myra Dolthan, Hotel de Ville, Paris. It
was postmarked Boston, but bore no return address.
THE SHADOW closed the trunk and locked it. He stepped from the closet. He
picked up his briefcase and brought out a blackened fold of cloth. A cloak
slipped over his shoulders. A slouch hat settled on his head.
Automatics went beneath the cloak; The Shadow's hands encased themselves
in gloves. Beside the dusty stairs, The Shadow had become a living shroud. This
spot was to be his headquarters until after dark.
For The Shadow had learned the one name that others had not gained: that
of the mystery girl whom Goodling and Lanford had seen in this very house. The
occupants, in leaving, had forgotten the single trunk.
Searchers had been about until this afternoon. The scouring of the
district had ended. It would be possible for someone to return to this house.
The odds were that the vanished occupants had learned that they had forgotten
the steamer trunk.
The Shadow was waiting in the hope that he would later meet some member of
the band that had departed so suddenly from this house of doom. That forgotten
trunk was the factor that would bring a secret emissary hither.
To The Shadow, certain possibilities could rise to a point where they were
sureties. He had discovered such an instance at present. He needed no further
trail until this development had completed itself. His process of logic had
brought him to a definite conclusion regarding the ways and means of the
persons who had left this house.
Only the unforeseen could balk The Shadow for the present. Only
developments that offered no clue could hold The Shadow to one duty while
another pressing task was close at hand.
Oddly, both such obstacles were already in the making. The fortune which
had resulted in the finding of the trunk was keeping The Shadow from other
spots where strange events were due.
CHAPTER V
THE MAN IN THE SEDAN
WHILE The Shadow was lingering in the empty, almost forgotten house on
Dobson's Road, one of his agents was approaching a farm building on the other
side of Sheffield. This was Clyde Burke, riding in a coupe that he had hired.
The reporter was on his way to pick up Fred Lanford.
Clyde applied the brakes as he saw a man step into the road. The fellow
had come from a house gate. Clyde knew that this must be Lanford's farm. He
turned on the dome light as the man stepped forward.
"You're Fred Lanford?" queried Clyde, surveying the pale, serious-looking
man who peered through the coupe window.
A nod was the response.
"I'm Burke," explained Clyde. "Hop in; we'll ride downtown."
Lanford complied. He shook hands with Clyde, then turned out the dome
light at the reporter's suggestion. Clyde headed back toward Sheffield.
"Nice of you to come out here and get me," said Lanford, as they rode
along. "There's only one thing about it, Burke. I don't think I ought to talk
much until after I've seen Goodling."
"I understand," acknowledged Clyde. "I'm not trying to work you for an
interview. I told you that over the telephone. All I want to do is check up on
the story as it already stands. This business about the house seems too
fantastic to be real."
"I don't blame you for thinking that, Burke," chuckled Lanford. "Actually,
I thought I'd had a pipe dream when I woke up. But when I told my story, it
fitted Jay Goodling's account right to every detail. We couldn't both have had
the same delusion."
"That's logical," agreed Clyde.
"Jay and I have always been pals," went on Lanford. "We went to college
together; then I came back to help dad run the farm while he took up law. I can
vouch for Jay's word and he can vouch for mine.
"We went through a real experience Saturday night. We both remembered
names that we heard mentioned. The names of people whom we saw. Kermal -
Daggart - Croy. Say - that fellow Croy was a tough fighter.
"He caught Jay unawares; but I had a chance to nab him. I would have made
good on it, too; but I was woozy after looking at that corpse in the other
room. Say" - Clyde could see Lanford's fists clench - "I'd like a crack at that
big bird once again. I'd show him this time."
"About the girl," remarked Clyde, as Lanford paused. "Her name was not
mentioned?"
"No. She was the one who told us the names of the others. That pale
fellow, Daggart, seemed upset about it. I wonder what had happened to him. His
left arm was bandaged and in a sling."
"Do you think that his wound was recent?"
"Yes. The bandages were fresh. Of course they could have been new ones;
but he was so pale, it looked as though he'd gone through something not long
before we arrived."
LANFORD paused and sat silent, staring through the windshield. Clyde had
turned into a road that led directly into Sheffield. Far ahead, a traffic light
showed a crossing on the outskirts of the town. An arc light also illuminated
the corner.
"I was rather groggy when I came to my senses," resumed Lanford. "First
thing I heard on Sunday morning was the roar of the creek. They'd parked Jay
and myself mighty close to the broken bridge.
"It's a deep chasm there; and it was filled to the brim. Sure death for
anybody who might have coasted into that mess. But I stopped worrying about the
creek when I began to think about the night before. My arm's still a bit stiff
from that jab they gave me with the hypo."
A sedan had cut in from a side street. It was rolling ahead of Clyde's
coupe. Both cars were approaching the traffic light. The gleam turned red. The
sedan stopped and Clyde swung up beside it.
Clyde went to the left of the sedan, which was apparently waiting to make
a right turn into the secluded cross street.
Clyde muttered jokingly about the uselessness of a light at this point. He
stopped suddenly as he heard a sound beside him. Lanford was opening the door.
"What's up?" queried Clyde.
Lanford was halfway out of the car. He caught Clyde's forearm in a warning
grip. He whispered as he pointed to the sedan; the driver of the other car was
looking up at the traffic light.
"See him?" queried Lanford, hoarsely. "Do you know who he is? That's Croy!
I'm going to get him!"
Clyde shot a look as Lanford scrambled to the street. The reporter saw the
scarred face of the man in the sedan. He noted puffy lips; he realized that the
driver of the other car must be a huge hulk of a fellow.
It was too late to stop Lanford. Clyde would have recommended a chase, not
an attack against so powerful a fighter. But Lanford, angered by his previous
defeat, had already grabbed the opportunity that he wanted. He was pouncing
straight toward the sedan.
Croy heard him coming. As Lanford reached the front door of the sedan, the
big man shot a wild, hurried look at his unexpected antagonist. He recognized
Lanford as the young man from the previous night. Lanford sprang upon the
running board and thrust his hands through the opened window, aiming for Croy's
throat.
Clyde saw a big fist flash. Lanford thumped back, staggering halfway to
the coupe. Croy hurled the front door open and leaped from the sedan. Lanford
piled forward to meet him.
CRYING encouragement to Lanford, Clyde leaped to the street and surged
forward to aid. Had Lanford put up a real struggle, the reporter could have
aided him. But Croy was too much for Lanford.
The huge man had delivered a second punch. Lanford was crumpling. He
dropped away as Clyde arrived. Croy swung another powerful blow against Clyde's
chest. The reporter catapulted back against the coupe.
With a fierce snarl, Croy yanked open the rear door of the sedan. He
scooped up Lanford's form and hurled the groggy man within.
Slamming the rear door, he leaped to the wheel and pulled his own door
shut. He swung the car about, to drive back along the street down which he had
come.
Clyde Burke had regained his wind. Croy's move gave the reporter
opportunity. Running to the rear of the coupe, Clyde cut across in back and
reached the sedan as it passed. He leaped to the running board beside the
driver's seat. He shot a quick fist to Croy's jaw.
The scarred face took the punch unflinching. Croy's left arm swung out and
encased Clyde. Driving with his right, the big man gripped and battled with his
left while he sped the sedan along the silent street, heading out of town.
Clyde was wiry; that fact made up for the lack of weight behind his
punches. He proved tougher than Croy had expected. Though he needed his left
hand to hold on to the door of the sedan, Clyde found opportunity to use his
right. He pummeled Croy as thoroughly as he could.
Yet Clyde's punches only glanced from the scarred face. Croy's head was
bobbing back and forth; his left arm warded off most of the reporter's blows.
Whirling along a serpentine course, the sedan was leaving the town behind.
Anything to stop the car. That was Clyde's frenzied thought. He was
willing to risk a wreck to end this mad course. At intervals he almost
succeeded.
They were roaring along an outlying road. At one point, Croy jammed the
brakes as the sedan swung to the right. The big car skidded; then found its
course along a dirt road.
Clyde lost his grip as the sedan swung. Croy's hamlike hand caught the
back of the reporter's neck. The big man guffawed; his puffy lips showed a grin
as he swung his opponent back and forth.
Clyde's light body wavered like a dummy figure; his feet clicked the
running board while his hands made wild, unsuccessful grasps for the door.
The car slowed at another turn. Croy swung right. As he did, he flung his
huge left arm outward. The heave precipitated Clyde a full dozen feet. The
Shadow's agent landed at the edge of the road and hurtled headforemost upon a
grassy bank.
CLYDE rolled over and came up gasping. He rose unsteadily and looked
around for the car. It was gone, past the turn in the road. To follow by foot
would be useless.
Clyde thought of his coupe, three miles away, on the outskirts of
Sheffield. He realized now that he should have followed in his car. He had made
the same mistake as Lanford.
As on a previous night, Croy had conquered two combatants. He had
overpowered Lanford and carried the man away as prisoner. He had pitched Clyde
Burke from the side of his speeding car. Evidently he had considered the
reporter unimportant.
Croy, despite his great strength, must be stupid. So Clyde decided as he
started back along the road. For although the big man had carried off Lanford,
he had left Clyde free to bear witness of the affray that had ended in the
abduction of Fred Lanford.
Under the circumstances, Clyde had but one choice. He knew that he must go
into Sheffield and report to Jay Goodling. The conference in the prosecutor's
office was already under way; for Clyde and Lanford would have arrived just at
the time that Goodling had set.
Clyde Burke grunted huskily as he limped townward, still shaky from his
battle with Croy. He was on his way to drop a bombshell into the conference at
Goodling's, so he thought.
But Clyde's conjecture was wrong on that point. Already developments were
taking place in Sheffield. Occurrences were due there that would prove more
startling than Clyde's experience with Croy.
CHAPTER VI
DEATH BEARS WITNESS
THE county prosecutor's office was situated at the rear of the old
Sheffield courthouse, a gloomy building that stood across the street from the
Weatherby Hotel. It was there that Jay Goodling had arranged to hold an early
evening discussion regarding the case in which he had figured so prominently.
Harry Vincent had met the prosecutor shortly after dinner. Clyde Burke had
made the introduction. Immediately afterward, Goodling had headed for his
office. The prosecutor's actions had indicated that something was in the air.
Harry sensed new tension when he entered the courthouse to await Clyde's
arrival. There were three reporters present; with them, two men who looked like
deputy sheriffs. In addition, Harry noted a lanky, white-haired man who wore a
friendly smile as he chatted with the deputies. Harry heard one man address
this worthy as Doctor Claig.
A closed door indicated the prosecutor's office. The transom above it was
tightly shut. Harry fancied that he could hear the buzz of voices from within.
Evidently, Goodling was holding preliminary conferences with someone.
At last there came the click of a key. The door swung open. Goodling, his
face inscrutable, waved for those waiting to enter. Harry walked in with the
others. Goodling motioned them to chairs.
Harry, like the others, was quick to observe another man within the room.
The stranger was a square-set individual, with dark hair and a wise face. He
was seated beside Goodling's desk.
"GENTLEMEN," began Goodling as he took his chair at the desk, "this is Roy
Parrell, a private detective from New York. He has come up from New York to
present a theory regarding the mysterious house wherein Lanford and I had our
strange adventure.
"Mr. Parrell arrived this afternoon. He has finally agreed to make his
theory public, now that the search for the house has failed. He feels that such
a statement would be to the interest of the client who sent him here."
Goodling looked toward Parrell, who nodded; then glanced about the group.
"Which man," he asked, "is your friend Fred Lanford? I think that he
should be present to hear my statement, prosecutor."
"That's right," rejoined Goodling. "Lanford should be here. Didn't I hear
that reporter, Burke, say that he was going out to get him?"
Goodling looked toward Harry, who nodded.
"Well, Fred should be in any minute," declared Goodling. "Suppose you
start, Parrell. Lanford will probably arrive by the time you have finished with
the preliminaries."
"Just one other question," insisted Parrell. "Is this gentleman Doctor Leo
Claig?"
The detective was looking toward the white-haired man. It was Claig
himself who nodded. Harry noticed a sharp gleam of the physician's eyes.
"Doctor Claig," continued Parrell, "you were the physician who examined
Mr. Goodling and Mr. Lanford, were you not?"
"I was," replied the physician.
"And you stated," said Parrell, "that they had been under the influence of
a powerful opiate, administered by a hypodermic syringe?"
"Precisely," agreed Claig. "Both showed influence of the drug. Both bore
marks of the needle."
"Would that experience," questioned Parrell, "have caused them to hold a
delusion regarding the things they saw and heard during their stay at the
unknown house?"
"Not at all," interjected Claig. "Their impressions were gained prior to
the injection of the narcotics. Moreover, their stories were identical."
"Doctor Claig is experienced in such matters," explained Goodling. "Prior
to his retirement from active practice, he used his home for a private
sanitarium."
"Here in Sheffield?" questioned Parrell.
"Outside of town," replied Claig. "Three miles north of here. I still live
in the old place; but I have closed off the upper stories, since I no longer
have patients there.
"You see, Mr. Parrell, opiates and narcotics are frequently required in
mental cases. I am thoroughly acquainted with the actions of drugs. When I
state, with full conviction, that Goodling and Lanford were not the victims of
drugged impressions, my opinion is one that should carry weight.
"They, apparently, acquired a condition of complete catalepsy. Awakening,
their minds reverted to the point where their recollections had left off. All
their original impressions were clarified. Fully acceptable as testimony."
DOCTOR CLAIG nodded wisely as he completed his statement. The physician's
opinion brought a gleaming smile from Parrell. It roused the detective into
prompt activity.
"Good!" exclaimed Parrell. "Then we know that we are dealing with a man
named Kermal; that he has a secretary named Daggart and a servant named Croy.
That there was a girl there with them."
Again Claig nodded. Goodling looked pleased.
"Daggart and Croy," stated Parrell, "are names with which I am unfamiliar.
But obviously, those men were merely servants of Kermal. I know who Kermal is.
His full name is Taussig Kermal; he is a lawyer who once practiced in Boston."
Reporters began to make notes. Harry Vincent followed suit.
"I can also name the young lady who was present," resumed Parrell. "She is
Myra Dolthan, of Boston. She is the niece of my client, Rufus Dolthan, who lives
in New York."
Parrell waited for the pencils to pause. He leaned on the side of the desk
and resumed his statement.
"Rufus Dolthan is wealthy," he explained. "So was his brother, Wade
Dolthan, Myra's father. A few months ago, Wade Dolthan died. He left his entire
estate to his daughter, Myra, who was then in Europe.
"There was a second beneficiary. I refer to George Garling, stepson of
Wade Dolthan. George Garling is somewhere in the West. He received a small
inheritance; he would have come into the whole estate only if Myra had not been
living."
Parrell made another pause. Then, emphatically, he came to the next point
of his account.
"Myra Dolthan is not yet twenty-one," stated the detective. "Hence the
estate is not yet hers. It still lies in the control of the executor. That man,
gentlemen, is none other than Taussig Kermal, the Boston lawyer.
"Rufus Dolthan tried to communicate with his niece after her father died.
He failed to reach her in Europe. He sought Kermal; the lawyer had left Boston.
It was then that the truth dawned upon Rufus Dolthan.
"Taussig Kermal has decided to keep the girl away from everyone until her
twenty-first birthday, which will be this very week. Upon that date, Myra
Dolthan becomes sole heir to ten million dollars. Once she is twenty-one, any
papers that she may sign will be legal documents.
"Kermal's game is to hold her, away from all contact, until after her
birthday. Then he can have her sign away the bulk of her estate into his hands.
Once that is done, Myra Dolthan will be free; and also penniless. She will have
a chance to see her Uncle Rufus, after it is too late for him to aid her."
PARRELL was leaning forward as he spoke. The detective was in front of an
open window, where trees and ground behind the courthouse formed pitch
blackness. But Parrell was not concerned with matters outside. He was intent as
he addressed his audience. He wagged an emphatic finger as he completed his
statement.
"Most remarkable," commented Doctor Claig, nodding his white-locked head.
"I presume, Mr. Parrell, that you read the brief accounts of the mysterious
girl in the vanished house?"
"Rufus Dolthan did," returned Parrell. "That is why he sent me here. I run
an investigating agency of my own" - he thrust a card across the desk to the
physician - "and Rufus Dolthan told me to look into the case.
"After I talked with Mr. Goodling this afternoon, I wired Mr. Dolthan to
come up on the evening train. He should be here within a few hours. All I
needed to know" - again Parrell wagged his finger - "was that one name. Kermal.
Taussig Kermal. That put us on the right track."
"What about these others?" questioned Claig. The physician was taking a
sudden interest in the case. "Daggart and Croy? You say they are unimportant?"
"Probably," returned Roy Parrell. "Merely servants. Tools of Kermal's. He
has probably duped the girl into believing that her enforced hiding is in
keeping with some term in her father's will."
"But the dead man at the house?" quizzed Claig. "Have you any idea who he
might be? Has Rufus Dolthan any theory?"
"None at all." Parrell shook his head. "Taussig Kermal is the only one we
know about. The lawyer has proven himself to be a scoundrel. He is capable of
any crime; the fact that murder was committed in his house testifies to that
point."
"We shall learn the name of the dead man," assured Goodling, quietly. "Do
not worry upon that score. Our chief problem is to find that house. We must
pick up some trail; gain some proof of crime -"
The prosecutor paused. Someone was rapping at the door. Goodling gave the
command to enter. The door opened. A gawky, red-faced yokel stepped into the
room. The newcomer was attired in khaki trousers, a gray-flannel shirt and
heavy hunting boots. He was unshaven and his face showed an ugly grin.
"Hello, prosecutor," greeted the arrival, stepping up to the desk and
dropping a battered felt hat into a chair. "Guess maybe you've heard of me. My
name's Yager" - he rumbled a laugh as he spoke - "Hector Yager. I live up
Dobson's Road, in by the old farm."
"A squatter, aren't you?" queried Goodling, sternly.
"Well," grumbled Yager, "I ain't got no deed for that property where I
built that log cabin of mine. But I ain't exactly no squatter, neither."
"Certain people seem to think so. They've put in a protest to have you
evicted."
"Yeah? What've they got against me?"
"Chicken stealing. You've been seen a few places where you shouldn't have
been, Yager."
THE squatter's ugly grin faded. His eyes glowered angrily as he faced the
youthful prosecutor. Then Yager's lips formed a sneer.
"Bringing that up, eh?" he snorted. "If I was as big a swell-head as them
folks, I'd walk out of here right now."
"You're welcome to it, Yager. Your confession to thefts of hen roosts can
wait until later. We have more important business here tonight."
"Smart guy, eh? Well, that comes of 'em, putting in a kid for county
prosecutor. I ought to be leaving; but just because you think you know so much,
I'm going to stay. And talk."
"There's the door, Yager," snapped Goodling, coming to his feet. "Use it
in a hurry before I have you pitched out of here. Do you understand?"
"Sure," chuckled Yager, holding his ground. "You want me to clear out -
without telling you what I know. About that house you're looking for - and the
people who were living in it."
Goodling stood staring, rigid. Yager snorted a laugh. He pulled a wad of
bank notes from his pocket and flung them on the desk beside his hat.
"See that there money?" demanded the squatter. "Well, that was given to me
to keep my trap shut. It was given to me by a fellow named Blissop. He was
living there in that house."
"Blissop?" queried Goodling. "You mean -"
"I mean the guy they did away with," broke in Yager. "You're looking for a
dead man, ain't you? Well, I'm telling you who he was. Blissop - that was his
name."
"And the others?"
"I don't know them. But they got rid of Blissop because he was pulling a
double-cross."
Doctor Claig had drawn close to the desk. Harry Vincent could see the
sharp gleam of the physician's eyes. He fancied that he could hear Claig's
breath coming in short, tense wheezes.
It was Parrell, however, who spoke to Yager. The detective had come to his
feet. His expression was eager. He wanted to know more. He pointed as Yager
turned toward him.
"You saw the murder of this man Blissop?" questioned Parrell. "You were a
witness to the crime?"
"Me?" snorted Yager. "Say - I wouldn't have gone near that place. Not
after Blissop talked to me. He spilled everything, he did, to keep me quiet. He
thought I'd stay quiet because he gave me the dough.
"Say - I'm going to tell you folks who's who and what's what. I'm going to
give away a mighty slick game so you'll all be straight. You won't have much
trouble finding the man you want after I'm through."
YAGER paused. His grin returned. Claig was at his side, hands half raised.
Parrell, still beside the desk, was wagging his finger; the detective was
seeking to attract Yager's attention. But the squatter was facing Goodling,
gloating in his triumph over the new prosecutor who had accused him of chicken
stealing.
"Blissop come to me," began Yager, "and he says to listen. He gives me
money. He says there's going to be more. He says to me on Saturday night that
when -"
A staccato gun bark ended Yager's sentence. The burst came from outside
the window. Harry Vincent leaped to his feet as he saw the flash in the
darkness. A gulp came from Hector Yager as the big squatter straightened in
front of the desk.
Then, like the echoes of that first bark, came two new bursts from beyond
the window. With those flashes, Yager crumpled; he sprawled headforemost across
the desk. Assassins from the trees behind the courthouse had drilled the
squatter with their bullets.
As Goodling stood rigid, Claig stepped forward and bent above the body.
The physician seemed fearless of new shots. He was acting to aid the stricken
man. Roy Parrell, however, was quick to see new danger.
Leaping away from the desk, the private detective dived for the wall
beside the door. He blinked out the light. The darkened room afforded no new
targets for hidden killers in the night.
Goodling sprang to the window as he heard the roar of a motor. A car was
shooting away from the curb of an isolated street beyond the trees that formed
a cluster in the grounds behind the courthouse.
"Get them!" barked the prosecutor. "Through the window! Through the door!
Outside, you fools!"
Goodling was yanking open a desk drawer. He grabbed a revolver in the
darkness and sprang through the window to the ground a few feet below. Parrell
scrambled after him; the detective had a gun of his own.
The deputies yanked open the door and dashed through the corridor to
spread the alarm, then circled the courthouse. The reporters followed. Harry
Vincent was about to leave when he heard someone by the light switch. The light
clicked on. It revealed Doctor Leo Claig.
The physician gazed sharply at Harry; then turned on his heel and went to
the desk to examine Yager's body. Harry watched Claig. He saw a slow solemn nod
of the physician's head; an indication that the squatter was dead.
Claig was still beside the body when Goodling and the others returned. The
prosecutor's face was grim. The brief chase had proven futile. Killers had made
a quick get-away in a waiting car. Half a dozen new deputies had arrived; they
were men who had searched for the missing house that very afternoon.
JAY GOODLING studied the squad before him. He looked at Yager's body; then
gave a prompt decision. His words brought comment of approval from the crowd.
"We're going out to Yager's cabin," declared the prosecutor. "We'll see
what we can find there. Come along; we're starting for Dobson's Road."
Men tramped from the office. This time, Harry Vincent followed. Hector
Yager's body remained, watched only by Doctor Leo Claig.
Death had claimed a witness about to testify regarding the location of the
vanished house. The law was moving to follow the one lead that it had gained.
Such a course was likely to prove barren; but it was the only one to take.
Harry Vincent realized that the trip to Yager's would probably prove
futile. He would have preferred to stay at the courthouse until Clyde Burke
arrived, for he was already puzzled by his fellow agent's absence.
But Harry had a part to play. He and Clyde were supposed to be mere
acquaintances, both newspapermen, but not companions in a hidden surface. It
was up to Harry to continue the bluff that The Shadow had ordered. He must not
jeopardize his usefulness by failing to join the other reporters who were
anxious to see the squatter's cabin.
With these thoughts in mind, Harry Vincent entered a waiting automobile
that was about to start for the shack where Hector Yager would no longer dwell.
CHAPTER VII
KILLERS IN THE DARK
ONLY a few hours had elapsed since The Shadow's return to the lonely house
on Dobson's Road. Those hours had brought no change to this silent terrain. This
evening's episodes had so far been confined to the town of Sheffield.
All was still within the house on Dobson's Road. Complete blackness had
enveloped the building. The Shadow lay hidden within that thickened gloom. He
was listening as he had been since dusk; waiting for some betraying sound of a
prowler's approach.
Click! The Shadow heard the noise from the darkness of the stairs. A key,
scraping in a lock. The sound ended; then it repeated. Someone was trying to
open the front door. The Shadow waited while the sound continued at brief
intervals.
Squeaking hinges told that the door had yielded. A faint puff of air
breezed through the darkened hall beside the stairs. Then came footsteps,
cautious, creaking tokens of advance. Dull reflections told of blinking
flashlights.
Prowlers had entered. Two men; not one. They were sneaking through the
rooms on the ground floor, making a close inspection of the secluded house. The
blinks appeared from the rear. The men had cut through to the long hall.
Parlor - living room - hall again. The blinks were by the side door that
The Shadow had entered. Light gleamed toward the stairs, then ran along the
wall. Someone grunted; a hand clicked a light switch.
A single bulb gleamed from a high ceiling. That lamp was one that had not
been removed from its unreachable socket. The light showed a telephone on the
floor, near the closet to the stairs
PEERING from the steps, The Shadow saw two roughly dressed men. They were
whispering, apparently discussing the next step in their snatch. One pointed to
the closet door. The other nodded. The first man tugged the door open; he
grunted to his pal. Both entered the long sloping closet.
The Shadow glided from the stairway.
In that dim light, he seemed a ghostly shape, some creature harbored by a
house of gloom, a living shade that had remained from banished darkness.
Swiftly, silently, he gained the turn on the closet door. He stooped; his
gloved hands appeared bearing automatics. His burning eyes stared toward the
closet. The two men were sliding the trunk from its hiding place.
"Better open it, Jake," growled one. "Let's see what's inside. No use in
lugging it out if its empty!"
"Yeah?" Jake's question was a snort. "Take a look at them labels, Dink.
"An' the initials on the end. Ain't they reason enough?"
"Guess you're right, Jake; But you'd better -"
"Dink" broke off. Jake had stepped out into the light to fumble for keys
somewhere in his pocket. He had chanced to look up. He found himself staring
into the eyes of The Shadow.
Dink, looking up at Jake, had seen a sudden change in his pal's
expression. Ugly lips had spread; but the snarl which they tried to give had
faded in Jack's throat. Dink followed the direction of his companion's gaze.
Like Jake, Dink saw The Shadow.
Two rigid men. Revolvers bulging from their pockets; yet they dared not
reach for those ready weapons. The fiery gaze of The Shadow held them
motionless.
They knew the identity of this weird being. That, in itself, told facts to
The Shadow. He knew that these men, despite their rural garb, were ruffians from
the city. They were crooks who feared The Shadow's might
Those who had occupied this house had gone to stay. These men were members
of some crew that had come here in their stead. But their object was the same:
to pick up anything that had been left behind, such as that telltale trunk
beneath the stairs.
THE SHADOW spoke. His tone was cold; his words a throbbing whisper, backed
by the weapons that he wielded. He had no quarrel with these men, despite their
uncouth appearance. He was ready to let them talk.
"Speak" hissed The Shadow. "State why you are here. Give the name of the
person who sent you."
It was Jake who found words. His answer came in a husky gasp that followed
the sibilant echoes of The Shadow's eerie tones.
"We was just lookin' around," explained the ruffian. "But here - wonderin'
if there was anythin' - anythin' we could use. We're just a couple of bums.
Nothin' else -"
The Shadow's whispered laugh interrupted. It was a sneering, mirthless
tone that stopped Jake in his lie. That fierce taunt called for the truth. Dink
quivered as he heard The Shadow's gibe.
"We'll talk," whined Dink. "On the level. Jake didn't mean no harm. We
picked this house because we was told to come here. We ain't hicks; that's all
a fake story. We've been looking for -"
The Shadow whirled suddenly. His move was timely. He was standing at the
very corner of the long rear passage, his figure revealed by the light.
Dink's words had drowned a sound that The Shadow would ordinarily have
heard. Some new prowler had been unlocking the door through which Goodling and
Lanford had made their entry two nights before.
It was a puff of air that had warned The Shadow. His whirl came just as
the door was fully opened. Crimson flashed from the lining of his
black-surfaced cloak. Barely discernible in the doorway were the figures of two
men.
"It's Slasher!" cried Jake to Dink. "Slasher, with Louie. They seen the
glimmer. Get The Shadow!"
REVOLVERS barked from the doorway. "Slasher" and Louie had spotted The
Shadow's twisting figure. Crooks, like Jake and Dink, they had blazed quick
shots at their arch-foe. As flames stabbed in from the night, bullets sizzled
past The Shadow's shoulder.
The cloaked fighter had made himself a moving target. The long range, the
full length of the hall, was also to his advantage. Moreover, he had dived in
the direction opposite that which the new arrivals had expected. He was heading
for the living room; not to the stairs.
In his swift sweep, The Shadow swung straight toward those stabbing flares
of guns. His fingers clicked triggers. Automatics answered with their booms. The
Shadow's thrusts were gauged, despite their speed.
A figure thudded in the hall; another staggered back with a cry. One
invader had dropped; the other was diving for the porch. The Shadow wheeled
again; this time toward Jake and Dink. Once again, his move was his salvation.
Cornered rats were whimpering no longer. With venomous snarls, this pair
had snatched their guns from their pockets. The Shadow had given them a chance
to live. It was not in their evil hearts to return the favor.
Dink aimed too swiftly. He fired as The Shadow suddenly wheeled clear of
the living room door. Dink's shot went wide. Jake, however, was more deliberate
than his excited pal. He pressed his trigger finger, holding his shot half a
second longer than Dink.
One half second! Such an interval was a long space to The Shadow. His
actions came in tenths of seconds. Between Dink's futile shot and Jake's coming
attempt, The Shadow's automatics spat their jabs of flame.
Dink sprawled before he could fire a new bullet. Jake slumped, his first
shot undischarged. The Shadow had dealt rightly with these skulkers who had
shown no thanks for his mercy.
A gleam of headlights shot through the opened door. A cry from outside; it
came from the man who had staggered into the clear. An automobile had arrived,
bearing new thugs. Shouts told that they were piling toward the house.
THE SHADOW swept toward the wall near the stairway closet. Guns barked
from the porch; exultant cries told that new crooks thought their enemy was on
the run. The Shadow snapped the wall switch, plunging the hallway into darkness.
Crooks came on; they believed that The Shadow had fled into the interior
of the house. They were wrong. Automatics burst anew. The Shadow had held his
ground; he was meeting these invaders with a leaden hail.
Men went diving back to the porch, scrambling for safety, anxious to
regain their car. The Shadow followed. His guns still barked as he kept up the
pursuit. Crooks were in flight, firing wild shots from the sides of a rakish
touring car.
One man had remained at the wheel; that accounted for the rapid escape.
But as the touring car swung into the dirt road at the front, it came squarely
into the glare of other headlights. Crooks fired wildly at approaching cars.
Guns barked in answer. The touring car veered wide and shot by an arriving
caravan. Skidding from an embankment, it roared toward the lower road, jouncing
its way to the clear before the other cars could stop and turn about.
The three cars swung into the driveway. The Shadow moved swiftly from the
porch. He faded into the shelter of enshrouding trees. He saw the three cars
draw up beside the house. Men alighted; Harry Vincent was among them.
Jay Goodling's procession, on its way to Yager's cabin, had been attracted
by the finish of The Shadow's fray. Flashlights glimmered; one showed the open
side door. A call for Goodling; then came the prosecutor's startled exclamation.
Entering by the side, Goodling had recognized the same hall that he and
Lanford had seen two nights before. As men of the law poured into the house,
The Shadow faded toward the dirt road. He saw no need to linger.
As aftermath to this strange chain of episodes, the law had discovered the
spot that The Shadow had found hours before - the house that searchers thought
had vanished. Within that house lay evidence.
Men of crime had failed to remove the steamer trunk that bore the initials
of Myra Dolthan and which contained an envelope addressed to the girl herself.
The search for the missing heiress would gain new impetus, thanks to the
consequences that had followed The Shadow's fight.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LAW PREPARES
THE big clock in the Sheffield courthouse was striking ten when three cars
rolled up in front of the gloomy, old-fashioned building. Jay Goodling was
returning with his squad from the house on Dobson's Road.
A lone deputy came forward from the courthouse steps. He started to speak
to the prosecutor. Goodling waved him aside in order to superintend the
unloading of the steamer trunk from one of the cars. The deputy managed,
however, to get a statement off his chest.
"It's important, prosecutor," he insisted. "It's about your friend Lanford
-"
"Where is Lanford?" questioned Goodling, suddenly turning about. "I want
to see him. Is he here yet?"
"No," returned the deputy. "He's missing. Don't know where he is. This
reporter fellow is in your office."
"Burke?"
"Yeah. Waiting to see you, prosecutor."
Goodling bounded up the steps. Roy Parrell followed, and Harry Vincent did
the same. Two deputies were hoisting the trunk; they decided to carry it to the
prosecutor's office.
When Harry and Parrell reached the rear office, they found Goodling
already there. The prosecutor was staring at Clyde Burke, who was resting
wearily in a chair beside the desk. Doctor Claig was standing beside the
reporter.
"Where's Lanford?" Goodling was demanding. "What's happened to him, Burke?
What's happened to you?"
Clyde's clothes showed that he had been in a scuffle. The reporter's
sleeves were ripped; his suit was mud-stained. His face showed bruises.
"Lanford has been abducted," interposed Claig, quietly, before Clyde could
explain. "He and Burke had a battle with some fellow whom they met outside of
town. Lanford was carried off."
"By whom?" questioned Goodling, savagely.
"By Croy," replied Clyde. "The big fellow that you and Lanford saw at the
missing house."
"Let me have the details, Burke."
CLYDE gave them. He told of the fight; his subsequent fall from Croy's
sedan. He stated that he had walked into town; that he had arrived at half past
nine to find the prosecutor absent.
"Half past nine?" questioned Goodling. "That was half an hour ago. Why
wasn't I informed sooner?"
"You were up at Yager's," said Claig. "There was no way to reach you,
prosecutor. I advised Burke to rest here until you returned."
"And you started no search for Lanford?"
"There was no use. You had taken all your men except one; and I supposed
that you wanted him to stay here."
"You seem to have an exaggerated idea of your authority, doctor."
Claig smiled at Goodling's outburst. With eyes gleaming shrewdly, the
physician replied to the prosecutor's harsh statement.
"On the contrary, Goodling," declared Claig, "I did not usurp any
privileges. I am merely a physician; not an officer of the law. The only advice
that I could give was for Burke to rest until you returned. It was beyond my
province to order a hunt for Lanford."
Goodling could think of no retort. He was angry; but realized that Claig's
mild reproval allowed no criticism. Turning about, Goodling addressed the two
deputies who had brought in the trunk.
"Everyone out to hunt for Lanford," snapped the prosecutor. "Start from
the traffic light on Elm Street. Follow out to the old Northwest Road. Look for
a suspicious sedan; hunt a big man with a scarred face. By the way, where are
the reporters?"
"Coming in," replied a deputy. "They're in the last car. Take 'em along,
shall we?"
"Yes," decided Goodling. "Burke and Vincent both represent the press.
They're enough to be here."
Momentary silence followed the departure of the deputies. A train was
chugging from somewhere beyond the courthouse; its clanging bell told that it
was pulling out of town. Goodling spied the trunk. He opened it and began to
examine the papers in the tray.
"Look at this," he said suddenly. He had found the envelope. "Addressed to
Myra Dolthan, in Paris. This is her trunk, all right."
"I knew that from the initials," returned Parrell, indicating the end of
the trunk. "The L stands for Lucille - the girl's middle name."
There were footsteps in the hall. Goodling looked up to see a tall,
dignified man, whose thin gray hair topped a straight forehead. The arrival's
face was a kindly one; yet trouble showed upon its drooping lips.
Behind the newcomer were two others. One was a solemn, long-faced
individual of slight build; the other was a cabby from the station. The cabby
was burdened with two heavy suitcases.
"Rufus Dolthan!" exclaimed Parrell, springing forward to greet the
gray-haired man. "I am sorry, sir. I should have met you at the station. But
there has been trouble here."
DOLTHAN'S kindly eyes had narrowed as they spied the trunk. The
gray-haired man noticed the foreign papers in the opened tray.
"Myra's?" he questioned, in a worried tone. "You have traced her, Parrell?"
"Yes," nodded the private detective. "This is Mr. Goodling, sir. He can
explain better than I."
Rufus Dolthan bowed. He turned to the long-faced man behind him and gave
an order.
"Pay the cabby, Souder," said Dolthan. "Have him take our luggage to the
hotel. After that, you may join me here."
Souder nodded and went out with the cabby. Dolthan sat down in a chair.
Goodling took his seat behind the desk; then introduced Claig, Harry and Clyde.
"Matters are still unsettled," explained Goodling, to Dolthan.
"Nevertheless, I was about to summarize what we have learned. Therefore, Mr.
Dolthan, your arrival enables you to hear of certain unfortunate developments."
"Concerning my niece?" questioned Dolthan, anxiously.
"Only indirectly," replied Goodling. "First of all, Mr. Dolthan, we had
evidence of strangers in this vicinity. Two nights ago, a man named Lanford and
myself entered an unknown house and there met a man named Kermal."
"Taussig Kermal?"
"Yes. He could hardly have been any other person. We also met a young
woman who answers the description of your niece, Myra. She warned us to leave."
"She seemed well?"
"Yes. Her concern was for us; not for herself."
"Of course. Of course. Kermal would be according her the best possible
treatment. The scoundrel will have to maintain her confidence until after she
is of age."
"SO I understand from Parrell. But to resume, Mr. Dolthan, we had not,
until tonight, gained any trace of the house or its occupants. Then events
commenced.
"First, regarding Lanford. He was driving into town with Burke" - Goodling
indicated the reporter - "and they encountered a man in a sedan. Lanford
recognized the fellow as Croy, a servant of Taussig Kermal.
"Croy was a powerful fighter, as I can testify. He carried Lanford away;
he dropped Burke on a road outside of town. Hence we were not immediately
acquainted with what had happened.
"I was holding conference here. A squatter named Hector Yager entered and
told of dealing with a man called Blissop, a servant of Kermal's who was
murdered. Before Yager could complete his testimony, shots were fired through
this window. Yager was slain under our very eyes."
"Incredible!" exclaimed Dolthan. He shifted, his chair away from the
window. "A murder - here in your own office! Did the assassins escape?"
"They did," returned Goodling. "We started out to Yager's. We heard
gunfire; we encountered a fleeing car. That led us to investigate a house that
had not been properly searched before, since it was not on the old Westbury
road.
"We discovered it to be the mystery house. We found dead men there; and we
located this trunk that belonged to your niece. But the house was deserted; its
lavish furnishings removed. Kermal, Daggart, Croy - all were gone; and Myra
also."
Goodling arose and paced the office. He stared through the blackened
window. He shrugged his shoulders; he was sure that no lurkers had returned.
They had dealt with Yager; another visit here would have been folly on the part
of the assassins.
"I have come to certain conclusions," stated Goodling, "despite the fact
that some details are vague. It is obvious that Kermal and his underlings fled
that house after they had dealt with Lanford and myself.
"Apparently Blissop, knowing Kermal's game, had planned to blackmail his
master. He must have arranged for pals of his to come to the house tonight.
Probably he chose Yager's shack for the rendezvous. That is why he gave Yager
money."
Goodling paused to look toward Parrell. The private detective nodded his
accordance. Goodling resumed.
"Kermal ordered Blissop's murder. He removed everything to some new
hide-out. The trunk was forgotten. He sent men of his own to get it. On the
way, they stopped here. Croy, scouting about, must have reported that a
conference was due.
"Kermal's ruffians saw Yager through the window. They fired three shots,
killing Yager; then they dashed away for a quick trip to the old house.
Blissop's pals, meanwhile, had arrived at Yager's. Finding the squatter gone,
they went to the old house.
"The two groups met. They battled; we arrived at the finish. We gained the
trunk as evidence. But dead men cannot speak; and living rascals have escaped."
JAY GOODLING stopped, dejectedly. Rufus Dolthan, however, was quick to
interject a hopeful comment.
"Perhaps," he exclaimed, "those fugitives have gone to join Kermal. Their
trail would lead you to his new hiding place."
"No." It was Parrell who spoke. "Those fellows were covering up. They
wouldn't hop back to Kermal's. They weren't hicks; they came from New York.
Kermal must have called them in on the deal."
"We have one lead," decided Goodling, thoughtfully. "I refer to Croy. He
must have gone to join Kermal. What is more, I believe that the new
headquarters is close by."
"What makes you think that?" questioned Dolthan.
"Croy being close at hand," replied Goodling. "That is one point. Another
fact: they moved a whole lot of furnishings. They would not have wanted to
travel after daybreak; hence they could not have gone a great distance.
"Moreover, the move was an emergency one. They were taking chances being
in that empty house and they probably were wise enough to have another hide-out
picked for a pinch. What is more, Daggart was wounded. Kermal would have to
think about him.
"Our search will continue. I intend to scour the entirely county for
traces of Kermal and his subordinates. No time will be lost."
"No time can be lost!" exclaimed Dolthan, rising. "Myra must be found
within the next few days. As soon as she becomes of age, Kermal's plot will be
completed. Myra is his dupe, just as her father was. The grasping scoundrel
will trick her into signing away her wealth."
"Do you think that the girl's life is in jeopardy?" queried Goodling.
"Yes and no," replied Dolthan, his tone troubled. "So long as Kermal
thinks he's within the law, he will prefer to have her live. But if he is
trapped; if crime is pinned upon him, he is rogue enough to resort to murder.
As he had done already."
"Then our search may bring trouble," declared Goodling, seriously. "Yet it
is our only course."
"It must be carefully conducted," warned Dolthan. "Search thoroughly for
Kermal; but when he is found, make no immediate attack against him."
"A good plan," agreed Goodling. "Naturally, Kermal would not murder Myra
unless he knew his game was finished. Only an open attack would drive him to
such a deed. I believe, Mr. Dolthan, that it would be best for you to stay in
town, so that we can discuss matters when the emergency arrives."
"I shall do so." Dolthan turned to Souder, who had quietly returned during
the discussion. "Souder, call my home in New York. Have Wurling drive here at
once with the limousine. Tell him to bring Hazzler, also."
"ONE moment, Mr. Dolthan," asserted Parrell. "Maybe you need your
chauffeur and your valet since you intend to stay a while; but I need helpers,
too; and they are more important. If I'm to work on this case with Mr.
Goodling, I ought to have a few of my investigators on the job."
"Perhaps, Parrell," reproved Dolthan, "Mr. Goodling does not want your
assistance. My intentions were to send you back to New York. The search for
Myra is now in the hands of the law."
"But I was trailing Kermal," insisted Parrell, in an indignant tone. "I
came here to look for him. It's rather tough to be let down just when the game
begins to open."
"Your search was for Myra," declared Dolthan. "We suspected that she was
being influenced by Kermal. But Kermal, then, was known to us only as a rogue.
At present, we know him for a criminal. A murderer. It is a matter for the
authorities."
"I should welcome cooperation," put in Goodling, as he saw Parrell's
dejection. "Parrell is a good man, Mr. Dolthan. If you care to retain him, I
can certainly use him and his experienced investigators. They can be sworn in
as deputies."
"Very well," agreed Dolthan. "Give Souder the names of the men whom you
want, Parrell. When you call New York, Souder, arrange for Wurling to bring
Parrell's operatives with him."
Comment ended. Goodling arose. He decided that there was no need of
further conference. He stated that he would push the search that had already
begun.
Rufus Dolthan left for the hotel, accompanied by Souder and Parrell.
Doctor Claig suavely decided that he was going home. Harry and Clyde went from
the office while the physician was still holding a brief chat with the
prosecutor.
Both agents were anxious to hear from The Shadow; to make their reports
regarding the evening's episodes. For they knew that in the search for Myra
Dolthan, The Shadow, alone, could accomplish more than a host of others.
CHAPTER IX
THE SHADOW'S FINDING
"THAT'S finished."
Clyde Burke made the remark as he sealed a well-packed envelope. He placed
it on the writing desk, where Harry Vincent was still engaged with fountain pen.
A few minutes later, Harry ceased writing and folded his final paper. He tucked
this sheet into a partly filled envelope. Like Clyde, Harry sealed the wrapper.
Harry had decided to room with Clyde. Uninstructed by The Shadow, the two
agents had gone immediately to the hotel. There they had compiled individual
reports.
"Of all places," mused Clyde Burke, staring from the window, "this town of
Sheffield is the last where I'd expect excitement. The only place that's lighted
is the courthouse; and that's simply because of all this crime."
"Quite a few street lamps," observed Harry, strolling to the window.
"That's one help, Clyde."
"Yes," returned the reporter, "but what use are they? Ordinarily, nobody
would be up after nine o'clock in this burg."
"There's someone now, coming from the courthouse."
"Sure. From the courthouse. Probably some deputy. No - it's Doctor Claig."
"I thought he had started home."
"Probably he got talking with Goodling. Claig likes to talk. He chatted
with me for half an hour while we were waiting for you to come back."
"What was his topic?"
"A lot of bunk about the swell sanitarium he used to run. It's off on a
hillside, about three miles north of town. I mentioned the place in my report."
"He's retired now, isn't he?"
"Yes. Living alone amid the ruins of his former glory. Wants to sell the
old place. But he can't find a buyer."
Claig had come across the street while the two men were talking. The
physician had entered a coupe that was parked in a space beneath the side of
the hotel. Clyde and Harry heard the starter; they saw the gleam of lights. The
coupe pulled out and started northward.
Clyde had regained his hired coupe on the way into town. He had found it
undisturbed in front of the traffic light. At present, it was parked at the
rear of the hotel.
Claig's car was the last that had been at the side of the hotel. To Harry
and Clyde, the space seemed empty as they stared downward into the darkness.
THEY were wrong. There was a figure in that blackened space beside the old
hotel. A shrouded form had arrived shortly before Doctor Claig. Silently,
unseen, the shape was entering a side door of the hotel
Looking up from below, The Shadow had seen his agents at the window. He
was coming to gain their reports. Yet neither Clyde nor Harry suspected the
proximity of their invisible master.
"I hope we receive a call from Westbury," remarked Clyde, in an undertone.
"Of course, there's a lot of dope we can't give over the wire, even though we're
supposed to be working for the press."
"That's true," agreed Harry, "but I've a hunch that we'll gain different
contact, Clyde. A closer interview. I've been thinking about it ever since I
was out at the house on Dobson's Road."
"You mean you saw someone there?"
"No. But I'm sure Goodling was wrong on one point of his theory. His idea
was sound about Kermal's men being there to cover up; but -"
"That was Parrell's idea."
"One and the same. Goodling agreed with it. The fellows went from here
after they shot down Yager. But it wasn't Blissop's pals who gave them trouble."
"Then who were the men there?"
"Some more of the same bunch. Some came to cover the courthouse. Others
went to search the old house. And then -"
Clyde nodded as Harry paused. The reporter understood. Harry had viewed
the scene of the fray and had recognized that The Shadow must have battled
alone against two groups of crooks. Those who had slain Yager had come to warn
their fellows.
Both agents were thinking, picturing the lone fighter and his odds.
Clyde's face was serious. He was wondering if The Shadow had come unscathed
from the fray. Harry's face was troubled also. Both agents stared musingly from
the window.
The door behind them opened. Without noise, almost imperceptibly at first.
Then, into the dull light of the room came the living figure of their chief.
Beneath the table lamp lay the sealed envelopes; near by were the keys of
Clyde's coupe
The Shadow approached. He picked up the envelopes and thrust them beneath
his cloak. He detached one of the keys from the ring. His eyes viewed his
agents by the window. Stealthily, The Shadow withdrew.
Unseen, unheard, the master sleuth had come and gone. But as token of his
departure, he did not close the door as silently as he had opened it. From the
hallway, The Shadow drew the door shut with a slight thump.
Harry and Clyde swung about, electrified by the sound. They saw the closed
door. They stared at the table. They observed that the envelopes were gone. For
a moment, Clyde showed alarm; then Harry's chuckle made the reporter smile.
Someone had entered unnoticed to gain those envelopes. That same person
could have departed just as silently. The click of the door had been a
deliberate signal on the part of The Shadow. An act that told his agents that
it was he who had removed their messages.
SHORTLY afterward, a light gleamed in a room on the same floor of the
hotel. The Shadow had chosen an unoccupied room as a temporary sanctum. Blinds
were drawn over windows. The glare came from a shaded table lamps, its rays
centered downward upon the woodwork.
The Shadow was reading the reports of his agents. They were inked in code.
Writing faded as The Shadow perused separately folded pages. But with pencil in
an ungloved hand, The Shadow made notations as he continued his perusal. The
reports finished, his hands brought a large sheet of paper into the light.
The Shadow compiled a column of notations, that read as follows:
Empty house as hideout.
Death of Blissop.
Disposal of Goodling and Lanford.
Removal to new hide-out.
Encounter with Croy.
Capture of Lanford.
The Shadow paused. Instead of continuing the column, he started a new
sequence at the other side of the paper. This second column stated:
Arrival of Yager.
Murder of Yager.
Prowlers at house.
Arrival of murderers.
What Harry Vincent had guessed, The Shadow knew. The band that had come to
the abandoned house were on their way to contact those already there. Both
groups had joined in battle with The Shadow.
But Harry had not even guessed at one fact which The Shadow had definitely
noted. That was the sudden break which had come in the sequence of events. That
break explained the reason why The Shadow had formed two columns instead of
only one.
Events that concerned Taussig Kermal had begun with craft and strategy.
Blissop had been slain; but the death of that servant had not been an open one.
Only the chance arrival of Goodling and Lanford had made Blissop's death a fact
known to the law.
Goodling and Lanford could easily have been murdered in the old house.
Instead, they had been doped and removed. That showed that Kermal still
preferred craft; that he was confident that his trail would not be followed.
Upon that point, The Shadow made side notations; this time in ink, that
dried, then faded. Thoughts that The Shadow gave in brief consideration; then
dropped in order to return to his main theme.
Murder not needed.
Accidental death.
The creek.
His references were to Goodling and Lanford. Kermal could not have known
that the pair had met Turner on the road from Sheffield. Goodling and Lanford
had been found in the prosecutor's coupe, on the very edge of Roaring Creek.
Had Kermal seen necessity for their death, he could have seen to it that
the coupe was rolled into the creek, with the motor running. The doped men
would have perished. Their deaths would have been classed as accidental -
without Turner's testimony, which Kermal could not have anticipated.
Kermal had been confident that his new hide-out would not be discovered.
He had deliberately allowed Goodling and Lanford to live, despite the testimony
that they would later give concerning the body of Blissop.
Moreover, Kermal had allowed Croy to travel from the hide-out on this very
night. Encountering Lanford and Clyde Burke, Croy had captured the former and
shaken off the latter. Up to that point, Kermal and his aids had persisted in
their policy of avoiding unnecessary killings.
Then came the break. Yager, murdered under the very nose of half a dozen
witnesses. Why had the policy been changed? Yager could have been seized as
readily as Lanford. Unless Yager's contact with Blissop had been unknown to
Kermal. In that case, there would have been no use in watching the courthouse
at all.
The prowlers at the house showed the next step in this new and perplexing
policy. Since Croy had ventured from the new hide-out, why had Kermal not sent
him alone to the old house?
Last of all, the arrival of the murderers there. Since the mystery of the
house stood as Kermal's strongest protection; since its supposed evanishment
left no beginning from which to pick up the lawyer's trail, why had he not
warned Yager's murderers to stay clear of it after delivering death?
Obviously, they had gone to warn the men who were already there. Why,
again, had that been a necessary move? Yager had not named the location of the
house.
Goodling and the others were heading for Yager's cabin, two miles beyond
the house. The prowlers who had come in place of Croy could easily have
finished their search and departed with the trunk.
Confusion on the part of Yager's murderers was no explanation. Men who
fired point-blank through the window of a prosecutor's office were too hardened
to become stampeded after a simple get-away.
THE SHADOW'S finding was definite. The capture of Lanford, by Croy,
constituted the final step in a policy of craft and strategy. The murder of
Yager, very shortly after Lanford's capture, began a policy of open defiance; a
series of bold moves that nullified all the cunning measures that had preceded
it.
Taussig Kermal had become a hunted man. The murder of Yager had aroused
the law to a high pitch of action. The trail to the house that he had left had
cleared all mystery. The law had not even stopped to analyze the sudden change
of action.
Only The Shadow was making such analysis. He could see the reason behind
the bold murder of Yager and the flight of killers to the mystery house. His
answer was a whispered laugh that spoke of hidden knowledge. His long fist
crumpled the paper that bore the written columns.
A NEW matter concerned The Shadow. That of Kermal's present hide-out.
Quick comments appeared upon new paper; these were inscribed in vivid blue ink.
Croy close by... Daggart wounded... Bandages... Hypodermic...
Informant needed... Security in new hide-out... Quick seizure of
Lanford.
A pause. The last word faded. Then, in vivid letters, The Shadow wrote a
name upon the paper:
Doctor Leo Claig.
A whispered laugh sounded as the name faded, letter by letter. Again, The
Shadow had pieced important points. Daggart had been wounded. Clyde's report
stated that Lanford had spoken of his paleness; the freshness of the bandages.
All pointed to skilled medical attention. Someone at the mystery house had
tended the wounded secretary in capable fashion. Goodling and Lanford had been
treated with a hypodermic needle. A likely item in the kit of a medical
practitioner, on hand because of a wounded patient.
Claig had thrust himself straight into the investigation. It was he who
had examined Goodling and Lanford after their experience. As an informant for
Kermal, none could be better than Claig.
The doctor's old sanitarium could fill the bill as the new hide-out in
this emergency. Croy's quick seizure of Fred Lanford at the traffic light
proved that the servant did not have far to go.
Searchers were already on the job. They would scour the countryside for
abandoned houses. They would pass up Claig's house as a matter of course. The
physician had worked himself into the affairs of the law.
The Shadow, however, remained undeceived. The light clicked out; a cloak
swished in darkness. A few minutes later, Clyde Burke's coupe rolled from its
parking space behind the Weatherby Hotel.
The Shadow was on his way to pay an unseen visit to the country residence
of Doctor Leo Claig.
CHAPTER X
KERMAL DECIDES
"WELL, doctor, we'll probably be seeing you tomorrow."
"Good. I'm glad you stopped off to say hello."
"We saw you pulling into your garage. Though we'd better find out if you'd
spotted anybody suspicious."
"I wish I had, Carter. But I didn't pass a single car coming up from town."
"Well, I guess we've been chinning long enough. Good night, doctor."
Three men stamped down the steps of Doctor Claig's front porch. They were
deputies, headed by a man named Carter. Claig had encountered them just outside
his drive. They had strolled up to the porch for a chat.
Doctor Leo Claig was both well known and well liked in Sheffield. In the
days when his big house had served as a private sanitarium, his wealthy
patients had spent large sums of money in the town.
Always ready to chat with those whom he met, Claig had given greeting to
the deputies. They were returning from the search that Goodling had ordered;
they were wearied with their tramp about the hills and were glad to rest a
while at the physician's invitation.
Claig had gone into reminiscences. He had recalled many places in the
neighborhood of Sheffield that he thought would be worthwhile investigating.
Carter had thanked him for the tips.
Claig chuckled as he unlocked his front door. He planned to stay at home
tomorrow. There would be more deputies prowling about. He would greet them as
he had greeted Carter.
Closing the front door, Claig turned on the light. He walked from the hall
into a comfortable, old-fashioned sitting room. He turned on a light there; then
went back through the hall and into a parlor that served as waiting room for the
few patients whom he occasionally received.
Claig went through and turned on the light in his office. Beyond was a
door that opened into his bedroom. But instead of going in that direction,
Claig used another door to enter a long passage that ran to the dining room and
kitchen.
The physician turned on a light in a small alcove. Directly in front of
him was a heavy door, with a large lock. The bottom of the barrier was above
the level of the floor. This was the entrance to the stairway that led to the
second and third floors.
Presumably, these upper stories were no longer in use. Claig had abandoned
them when he had given up his sanitarium. They had formerly been the quarters
occupied by the doctor's patients.
Tonight, however, Claig had reason to go upstairs. He unlocked the big
door, stepped through to the darkened stairway and closed the door behind him.
The lock clicked automatically.
Viewed from outside, Claig's house was a somber structure. The lights
which the doctor had turned on modified the gloominess of the ground floor; but
the upper stories looked barren and forbidding.
Faint moonlight showed blackened windows, most of them fronted by steel
bars. One large window at the side of the house was unbarred; but its darkness
made it as forbidding as the others. This window was on the second floor, just
above the roof of a small side porch.
Off to the rear of the large house was a darkened garage. It was a large
structure also, of sufficient size to accommodate four or five automobiles. The
garage had a low second story, which possessed half a dozen windows. It had once
been used as quarters for servants.
Off beyond the garage was a line of thick trees that marked the path of an
old dirt road. It was from that streak of blackness that a vague figure appeared
in the moonlight, only to fade in ghostlike fashion as it neared the garage.
THE SHADOW had come by a back route to Claig's. He had studied maps of the
district. He had read Clyde Burke's details of the reporter's chat with the
physician. Clyde had gained a good idea of where Claig's house was located.
From the garage, The Shadow studied the dimly lighted windows of the lower
door. In their appearance, he detected the physician's bluff.
Claig had definitely made an effort to indicate that he was at home, yet
might be anywhere on the ground floor. To the average late visitor, those
scattered lights would serve as explanation if Claig should prove slow in
answering a ring at the doorbell.
To The Shadow, the lights meant that the first floor needed no
investigation. He looked upward and spied the unbarred window that was
conspicuous above the roof of the little side porch. The Shadow moved toward
the house.
That objective gained, his course was upward. Gripping fingers pressed
roughened stone. The Shadow's figure reached the porch roof. His hands arrived
upon a glass pane. A wedge of thin steel slid between the portions of the sash.
A clamp yielded, noiselessly.
Stretching a hand into darkness, The Shadow felt a broad window ledge.
Beyond were thick curtains; this accounted for the deep gloom within the
window. The Shadow edged in until he reached the curtains. Silently, he closed
the widow.
The Shadow could hear voices; yet the thickness of the draperies muffled
them almost to a point of obscurity. It was not until The Shadow carefully
divided the curtains to a scant half inch that he could make out the words that
were being spoken.
The separation of the curtains enabled him to see as well as hear. The
view of the room beyond the curtains was immediate proof that The Shadow had
reached his objective.
Chairs, couch, rugs and tapestries; even the wolfhound in the corner - all
matched the description of the living room in the house on Dobson's Road.
The furnishings had been carried here to Claig's and put in place about
this room. Apparently, this had once been the physician's upstairs office; that
was why it had no bars upon the window. For the present, it was the new
headquarters of Taussig Kermal. The man, himself, was seated in the center of
the room.
A SOUR glower showed on Kermal's thick features. As The Shadow watched,
the heavy man gave a growl and shook his shaggy head. Opposite Kermal sat
Claig. It was apparent that the physician had completed a report. The details
had not been to Kermal's liking.
"That's about all," declared Claig, suavely, as Kermal began to chew at
the end of a cigar. "I was later than I expected; and I ran into some deputies
outside the house. I stopped to chat with them a while. It seemed good policy."
"It was," snorted Kermal, "and it won't be all the talking you'll have to
do, Claig. Well, let's hope we can hold out for the next few days."
"There should be no trouble, Kermal," assured Claig. "Leave that part of
it to me."
"We may be able to fool Goodling," stated Kermal, "but Rufus Dolthan is a
different. matter. He and this smart detective, Parrell, are liable to make a
lot of trouble for us."
"No more than Goodling," objected Claig. "He's hot because of Yager's
death. He's found the missing house besides."
"He blundered into it," sneered Kermal. "Something odd must have happened
down there tonight. He never should have found the place. I'd have sent after
that trunk sooner, if I'd known all that was coming."
"Lay it on Yager," suggested Claig. "How were we to know that Blissop
talked to the fellow. I didn't know it until he blew into the courthouse
tonight. I was expecting some trouble from Goodling or Lanford - not from a
person like Yager."
"Croy took care of Lanford?"
"Yes. But there, again, I can see trouble. Goodling will be as anxious to
rescue Lanford as Dolthan is to find Myra."
"Not quite. But we've a chance to spike the Lanford business."
Kermal settled back into his chair and puffed at his cigar. After a few
moments of meditation, he spoke in a slow growl.
"Lanford recognized Croy," he explained. "The only thing Croy could do was
grab him. Croy didn't think Burke knew who he was. That's why he chucked Burke
from the car, instead of bringing him along, too."
"But Burke knew it was Croy," put in Claig, in a sarcastic tone, "and
right after that, Yager was murdered. That made a perfect tie-up between the
abduction and the killing."
"Forget Yager," growled Kermal.
"They'll never find the fellow who shot him; and if they can't trace it
that far, how are they ever going to bring us into it?"
"Through Blissop's death," returned Claig. "When they find his body,
they'll accuse us of his murder. They won't need any more than circumstantial
evidence to pin Yager's death on us."
"We can explain matters about Blissop," insisted Kermal. "We decided that
the other night, Claig. Our story will sound straight enough."
"It would have sounded straight," agreed Claig, "but it won't pass muster
after what's happened to Yager. The two men were linked. Anybody who had cause
to kill one would apparently have cause to kill the other.
"We'll have to sit tight; and all the while, we're in a worse mess because
of Lanford. I'll tell you, Kermal, you've gone too strong. Of course, it was
Croy's fault. He had good reason to be on his way through town; but he made a
mistake in grabbing Lanford."
"DID he?" Kermal bounded to his feet. "Did he? Listen, Claig - we're lucky
to have Lanford here. They're looking for us anyway. We couldn't use Lanford
while he was loose."
"Can we use him now?"
"Certainly. There's going to be a show-down some day. The more friends we
have in court, the better. I'm going to talk to Lanford and see how he reacts."
"You're going to tell him about Yager?"
"Of course not. We'll give him the facts as they stood at the time Croy
grabbed him. We'll see if he is impressed. If it goes over, we'll know that we
can take a chance with the others later."
"Not now. Not since Yager's death. That complicates everything."
"Perhaps. Nevertheless, if Lanford listens, we'll have gained something."
Kermal strode to the door and called for Daggart. The Shadow caught a
glimpse of the pale-faced secretary in a hallway beyond the door. Daggart
nodded and departed when Kermal ordered him to bring Lanford.
Doctor Leo Claig was smiling wisely as Kermal returned. Watching the
physician's face, The Shadow could see that Claig possessed craft as keen as
Kermal's.
Fred Lanford was due for an interview with two shrewd men. However they
might choose to bluff their prisoner, the chances were that they would be
successful.
But in the coming game, these two planners were dealing with one whose
presence they did not suspect. Unwittingly, they were about to reveal
themselves and their schemes to the hidden watcher who had come to learn their
ways.
CHAPTER XI
LANFORD AGREES
"COME in, Daggart."
Kermal rasped the command in response to taps at the doorway from the
hall. The door opened; Daggart appeared, with Fred Lanford. The Shadow, peering
from the slitted curtain, observed another figure also.
Croy was standing out in the hallway. The big servant had backed up
Daggart. The Shadow knew that Lanford, until now, must have been kept prisoner
in one of the barred rooms.
In fact, Lanford's face showed defiance as the prisoner met Kermal's gaze.
Then, as Daggart closed the door, Lanford began to look about in bewildered
fashion. The room had turned his recollection back to that old house that he
had visited with Goodling.
Lanford stared toward the curtains at the window, thinking that they led
into an adjoining room. Seeing that they were raised to the level of a window
sill, he realized that this could not be the apartment wherein he had viewed a
dead form by the couch.
A chuckle ended Lanford's musing. The prisoner turned as he heard the
sound. He recognized Doctor Claig. An expression of complete mystification
showed upon Lanford's features; then the young man smiled in relief.
Like others who lived in Sheffield, Lanford knew Claig by sight and
reputation. The doctor's presence gave assurance that danger was absent. But as
he viewed Claig's steady eyes, Lanford appeared to wonder.
"Good evening," greeted Kermal, his harsh voice toned. "Have a seat, Mr.
Lanford. Help yourself to a cigar. You are with friends."
LANFORD considered Kermal with doubt; then he caught a nod from Claig. He
started to sit down on the couch; then shied away and took a chair instead. He
managed a weak smile as he accepted a cigar from a box that Kermal passed him.
"Mr. Lanford," stated Kermal, "I greatly regret the circumstances that
surrounded our first meeting. I must also apologize for the emergency which
caused my servant to bring you here tonight.
"Therefore, I am ready to make explanation. Not only that: I am willing to
answer any questions that may trouble you. Suppose, however, that I begin by
giving an account of myself. That will automatically answer most of the
questions that you have in mind."
"Very well," agreed Lanford, huskily. "Go ahead, Mr. Kermal."
"You remember my name." Kermal smiled. "Good. In full form, it is Taussig
Kermal. I am a Boston attorney. I represent a man named Wade Dolthan, who died
a few months ago. Before his death, he appointed me as executor of his estate.
"Wade Dolthan had a daughter named Myra. She is the young lady whom you
met at our former headquarters. Myra was abroad at the time of her father's
death. Since she would not inherit the estate until she became of age, I feared
for her safety during the short time that remained before she would be
twenty-one."
Kermal paused. He was seated back in his chair, looking steadily at
Lanford. The Shadow could detect the closeness with which the lawyer was
watching his listener.
"Let me be specific," resumed Kermal. "Should Myra Dolthan die before the
age of twenty-one, the full estate would go to her stepbrother, George Garling.
He is older than Myra, and he is a man of doubtful character.
"Do not misunderstand my statement" - Kermal raised his hand as Lanford
was about to ask a question - "I would not accuse Garling of plotting his
stepsister's death. Far from it. Garling is a weakling. But therein lies the
possibility that he might listen to the threats of others.
"Wade Dolthan warned me that his stepson was a man with a bad past. He
refused to give me details; but he intimated that there might be people who
held information sufficient to send Garling to prison.
"Such persons would naturally like to see Wade Dolthan's estate go into
the hands of George Garling. They could blackmail that young man for several
millions. There is one way in which they could assure themselves that Garling
would receive the money. That would be by murdering Myra Dolthan prior to her
twenty-first birthday."
Kermal paused to survey his listener, Lanford was staring in amazement. He
looked toward Doctor Claig, who nodded shrewdly.
"Am I clear?" questioned Kermal. "Do you see, Lanford, what great
opportunity exists for those of criminal tendency? Realize one point" - he
wagged an impressive finger - "namely that murderers could strike before they
revealed themselves. They would not have to start pressure on Garling until
after he actually held the millions.
"They could approach him by proxy, if necessary. He would not dare accuse
anyone of murder; for on the face of it, he would appear to be the one who had
most to gain. Had I realized those complications prior to Wade Dolthan's death,
I would have insisted that he change his will. But I did not see the danger
until after he had died."
KERMAL arose impressively. Chewing at a fresh cigar, he paced back and
forth. He finally seated himself on the couch, nearer to Lanford than he had
been before.
"There are remedies for most ills," stated Kermal, steadily. "I saw the
cure in this case. To keep Myra Dolthan hidden until she is of age. Then to
have her make out a will herself, cutting George Garling off entirely. When
that has been accomplished, plotters will be checkmated.
"I happened to be a friend of Doctor Leo Claig. He came to Boston while
Myra was on her way from Europe. I wanted to use his house as our hiding place.
He suggested that it would be better to occupy a house on Dobson's Road, a
building recently vacated by an artist named Brooks.
"We moved in there one night. Myra, myself, Daggart and two servants: Croy
and Blissop. Brooks had failed to order the telephone disconnected. That suited
us, because it enabled us to communicate with Doctor Claig.
"However, the telephone caused trouble. Last Saturday night, Daggart heard
someone making a call by the door of the hall closet. Daggart listened; he heard
Blissop giving someone instructions how to reach our house.
"Blissop, like Croy, was in my confidence. The man had turned traitor. He
was selling out to those who wished to murder Myra. Daggart rushed upon Blissop
as soon as the fellow had completed the call.
"Blissop drew a gun. He fired two shots; one clipped Daggart's arm. When
Daggart fell, Blissop was aiming deliberately to kill him when Croy arrived. He
had a gun; he had heard the shots. He fired and his bullet lodged in Blissop's
heart."
Lanford saw Daggart standing pale-faced near the couch. The secretary
nodded as he caught Kermal's gaze. Daggart's face looked troubled; Lanford
decided that the man was recalling that experience in which he had been wounded.
"I called Doctor Claig," declared Kermal. "He attended Daggart's wound. We
placed Blissop's body in the living room. Then we discussed our next step. Less
than one week remained before Myra would be twenty-one. It seemed best to avoid
complications until that date.
"To inform the authorities would have caused an inquiry. Our whereabouts
would be known. Myra would be held as a witness. We knew that we were dealing
with hidden foes who would go to any measure to slay the girl whom we were
protecting
"Blissop had told them where we were. Fortunately, his telephone
conversation had been finished. They did not know what had happened. Yet there
was a chance that they might come that very night. Blissop had directed them to
take the first road after they passed the one marked Westbury.
"We sent Croy out into the storm. He removed the sign. He brought it to
our road and planted it there. We knew that we would have time to move. We were
packing upstairs when you and Goodling arrived. Naturally, Croy suspected that
you might be enemies."
LANFORD smiled. The story sounded logical. Kermal smiled also; he saw that
Lanford was beginning to believe.
"Croy's description of you and Goodling impressed Doctor Claig and
myself," said Kermal, to Lanford. "We sent Daggart downstairs, however, to make
sure. Unfortunately, Myra, who was upset by Blissop's death, saw you before
Daggart arrived.
"She took it upon herself to give you a vague warning. You became
suspicious and discovered Blissop's body. Even then we would not have dealt
roughly with you if Goodling had not started the attack.
"After we had overpowered the pair of you, I felt that there was no time
to be lost. Doctor Claig agreed. He realized who you were. That was why we
turned out the lights before he came in to administer the hypodermic.
"Croy took you both to the edge of the creek. He left you in the coupe. He
came back and helped us complete packing. After that, he replaced the sign where
it belonged. We came here and brought Blissop's body with us. Our intention was
to make everything known the day that Myra becomes of age."
Kermal stopped. It was Doctor Claig who added the finishing touch to the
story.
"There was a trunk at the old house," explained the physician, dryly.
"Blissop had put it away somewhere. We overlooked it when we packed. When we
checked up on everything here, we remembered the trunk.
"Myra thought it must be under the stairs. We decided to send Croy to find
it, since I had learned, downtown, that the location of the house was still a
mystery. But Croy could not go until after the search was ended."
"I sent him out this evening," added Kermal. "He met you while he was
driving through the outskirts of the town. You recognized him; and Croy saw
nothing else to do but bring you here."
"And now," put in Claig, "the house has been located. The trunk is in
Goodling's office. The hunt is beginning for Myra Dolthan as well as for you,
Lanford. But" - the physician chuckled - "they will never suspect this house as
the new hiding place."
"Not until we reveal it," declared Kermal, seriously. "We intend to do
that, Lanford, within the next few days. As soon as Myra is twenty-one and has
made her new will. That is why we have decided to be frank with you."
KERMAL arose, stepped forward and clamped his hand on Lanford's shoulder.
His entire action was friendly.
"You can help us, Lanford," declared the lawyer, in an emphatic tone. "You
can help us by staying here, as a guest, rather than as a prisoner. You can act
as witness to documents. You can aid us in protecting Myra."
"How?" questioned Lanford.
"By writing a letter," replied Kermal. "A letter to Goodling. I shall mail
it to New York and have a friend there send it, in your envelope, to Goodling.
"You can explain that everything is all right. That you have met Myra
Dolthan. That will carry the search away from here. We shall be unmolested
until the all-important day when we can make our complete story public."
Lanford nodded momentarily. Then his fists clenched in challenge. Rising,
the young man faced Kermal. He blurted out his doubt.
"Why should I accept your story?" he demanded. "Why should I even believe
in Doctor Claig? You have tried to explain a murder. Perhaps your story is
true. But how do I know that the girl is here? How do I know that she is still
alive? She warned me once - where is she to warn me now?"
"She is here," smiled Kermal, "to advise you. Not to warn you. Daggart" -
he beckoned to the secretary - "go and request Miss Dolthan to join our
company."
The secretary bowed and went toward a door opposite the one by which
Lanford had entered. Kermal's smile had become triumphant. Claig's face showed
a gleam.
The Shadow, watching Fred Lanford, saw the young man stare fixedly toward
the door by which Daggart had departed. The Shadow knew that if Myra Dolthan
appeared in answer to the secretary's summons, Kermal's argument with Lanford
would be won.
CHAPTER XII
FROM THE NIGHT
BEYOND the door that Daggart had left open was a further hall. It was the
twin of the corridor by which Lanford had come to this meeting room. Daggart's
footsteps had died; now, after a brief-lapse, foot-falls were returning.
All eyes were toward that door as Myra Dolthan appeared. Standing on the
threshold, the girl gazed inquiringly toward Taussig Kermal. Then she spied
Fred Lanford.
Her eyes showed involuntary surprise as she recognized him as one of the
men to whom she had given a warning.
"Come in, Myra," requested Kermal, in a kindly tone. "I want you to meet
Mr. Lanford. He was one of the strangers who came to the other house. Do you
remember him?"
"I do," replied Myra, nodding slowly. The girl's face had paled; but its
color was returning as she advanced into the room. "I - I am pleased to meet
you, Mr. Lanford."
"I am pleased to meet you, Miss Dolthan," returned Lanford. He had risen
and was bowing. "Very pleased."
"Your friend?" inquired Myra. "Where is he?"
"Jay Goodling?" laughed Lanford. "Back in town, where he belongs.
Wondering where I am, I suppose."
"You see, Myra" - Kermal caught the girl's attention - "I told you the
exact truth when I said that no harm had befallen those two strangers. We did
not hold them as prisoners. They were released by Croy. Both of them returned
to Sheffield.
"Mr. Lanford came here tonight, after a chance meeting with Croy. I must
admit that there was a misunderstanding; but after Croy brought Lanford here, I
explained matters. Lanford is our guest; not our prisoner."
Myra Dolthan appeared relieved. Fred Lanford smiled. This was certainly
the girl whom he had met on Saturday night. He had remembered Myra's
countenance from the vague light of the old house. Here, where he could see her
face more plainly, he was absolutely sure of her identity.
Myra Dolthan was attired in the same dark traveling costume that she had
been wearing that other night. Her voice was the same; the darkness of her hair
produced the same contrast against the whiteness of her face.
"I was worried about you, Mr. Lanford," explained Myra, as she seated
herself in a chair. "Mr. Kermal and Doctor Claig assured me that you and your
friend were uninjured. But I knew that there had been a scuffle after you had
failed to heed my warning."
"Mr. Lanford was concerned about your safety, Myra," put in Claig, with
his dry tone. "So Mr. Kermal decided that it would be best for you to meet."
"You see, Myra," stated Kermal, "I have made certain statements to Mr.
Lanford. I feel convinced that he believes what I have told him; but your
corroboration would be most welcome."
"May I ask Miss Dolthan some questions?" queried Lanford, facing Kermal
boldly.
"Certainly," replied the lawyer. "Myra" - he stared toward the girl - "you
may answer any questions that Mr. Lanford asks."
THE girl nodded. Her eyes were looking straight toward Kermal. The Shadow,
watching from the curtains, could see the fixed, almost hypnotic stare that had
come over Myra's expression. Not once did Kermal relax his gaze.
"Miss Dolthan," stated Lanford, "I have been told that you are here of
your own free choice. Is that correct?"
"Certainly." The girl spoke in a low tone; then turned toward Lanford as
Kermal's gaze relaxed. "Yes. I lived in the old house at Mr. Kermal's advice. I
came here also because he advised it."
"Yet you warned Goodling and myself," insisted Lanford. "You told us to
leave that house on Dobson's Road. Why?"
Myra did not look toward Kermal; yet it was plain, to The Shadow, that the
girl knew the lawyer was watching her. Myra spoke; her voice trembled slightly.
"I was afraid," she said to Lanford. "Not for myself; but for you and your
friend. I was afraid that you would be mistaken for enemies. We expected such
persons to arrive."
"But you thought Goodling and I were all right?"
"Yes. That is why I warned you."
"You knew that a man was dead in the house?"
"Yes. I knew that Blissop had been killed."
"And you believe that his death was either accidental or justified by
circumstances?"
"Yes. Croy told me that he shot Blissop in order to save Daggart. I
believed Croy."
Lanford nodded. Despite the fact that Myra spoke as if under pressure, her
statements were clear. Kermal smiled; then made a suggestion to Lanford.
"Ask Miss Dolthan if she thinks you should cooperate with us," said the
lawyer. Then, to Myra: "Remember, Myra, you may answer as you think best."
Again the girl's eyes met Kermal's. Myra nodded instinctively. The Shadow
could see that Kermal was forcing her to a choice. Lanford, however, did not
discern the subtle fact.
"Mr. Kermal wants me to write a letter," stated the young man. "One that
can be posted from New York. A letter saying that everything is all right; that
you are safe. That I am satisfied that all can be explained. Do you feel that I
should comply with that request?"
"I do," responded Myra. "I advise you to do as Mr. Kermal suggests."
"And shall I remain here, and aid in keeping searchers from learning where
you are?"
"Yes. If Mr. Kermal wishes you to do so."
Lanford paused. Again he was impressed by the girl's definite opinions.
Kermal spoke.
"Are there any other questions, Mr. Lanford?" he inquired.
Fred started to shake his head; then stopped. One question had occurred to
him. He turned to Myra.
"Who are these enemies of yours," he asked. "Is there anyone in particular
whom you fear? Anyone whom you think -"
LANFORD stopped short. Myra was gripping the arms of her chair. Her face
had turned pale; she was biting her lips. The girl glanced nervously toward
Kermal.
The lawyer came to his feet. For a moment he glared at Lanford; then his
wrath subsided before Fred noticed the suppressed outburst.
"Miss Dolthan is highly nervous," spoke Kermal. "Your question has
disturbed her. We must not trouble her with a subject that arouses her fears.
Am I right, Doctor Claig?"
"Quite right," responded the physician. "As you know, Lanford, I am a
specialist on nerve conditions. I believe that it would be best for Miss
Dolthan to rest."
Kermal nodded. The girl arose. She steadied and managed to say good night.
Fred watched her walk from the room. Daggart closed the door immediately after
the girl's departure.
"About the letter," declared Kermal, brusquely. "If you write it at once,
Doctor Claig can drive downtown and post it so it will go out in the early
morning mall."
"What shall I state in it?" asked Lanford.
"I shall leave that to you," replied Kermal. "Goodling is a friend of
yours. Tell him that you are in New York; that you have met Myra Dolthan. State
that you have promised her that you will not explain matters until later. Choose
your own wording, so the letter will be natural."
Lanford nodded and turned about toward the door by which he had entered.
Kermal nodded to Daggart. The secretary followed Goodling. The Shadow saw Croy
in the hall when the door was opened by Lanford. Then Fred and Daggart went
out; the door closed. "Not bad, Claig," chuckled Kermal. "Not bad at all. We
sold Lanford on our story. Others will believe us also."
"It was Myra who convinced him," corrected Claig. "Don't forget that,
Kermal."
"Myra will convince others later."
"Not if they question her while you are absent."
"Ridiculous, Claig. She knows what to say."
"Up to a certain point, yes. But after that - well, you saw how she acted
when Lanford questioned her about who the enemies were."
Kermal grunted angrily; but he had no reply. He paced back and forth
across the room. Claig looked dour.
"I guess you're right," admitted Kermal, stopping his pacing to face the
physician. "Everything is explainable up to a certain point. After that, we
need proofs."
"Which you do not have," reminded Claig, "and which you can never obtain.
Remember, Kermal, how you first told the story to Myra. I was there. I saw her
reaction."
"She listened just as Lanford did tonight. She believed me completely."
"At first, yes. You told her about threatening danger. That you were
performing a duty for her dead father. She welcomed your protection; and then
she asked whom it was you feared."
"And I told her Rufus Dolthan. Her uncle."
"Yes. You told her that. Like the fool you can sometimes be."
"I made her believe that her uncle wants to murder her."
"You made her make believe she believed it."
"She certainly mistrusts her uncle."
"And she mistrusts you as well. That girl is in a state of confusion,
Kermal. As a witness, she would probably turn against you."
KERMAL paced again. At last he stopped and pounded his fist upon the table.
"There are millions of dollars hinged on this game of ours, Claig,"
declared the lawyer. "You and I are in it deep. You know as well as I do that
we have to hold off everyone until after Myra Dolthan becomes of age.
"The girl believes sufficiently in me. As long as she encounters no other
influence, she will sign anything that I ask. No one - not even Rufus Dolthan -
can question the legality of a paper that bears her signature after she is
twenty-one.
"Provided, of course, that it is witnessed. That part of it is easily
handled. Croy and Daggart can sign; better still, you and Lanford. Four of you."
"And suppose," suggested Claig, "that the lot of us are jailed on account
of Blissop and Yager -"
"That does not matter," broke in Kermal. "There's only one document that
Myra needs to sign. That is her will. In the absence of a later will, such an
instrument would remain valid."
"You are forgetting Rufus Dolthan," reminded Claig. "Suppose all of us -
Lanford, of course, excepted - should become fugitives from justice. Myra would
be restored to her uncle. She would know us as thieves and murderers; she would
see some game in everything that we have done. No matter how cleverly you word
that will, Kermal, its purpose will appear suspicious."
"We can discuss that point later," decided Kermal. "I disagree with you on
it, Claig. Myra may have doubted some of my statements; but she believes enough
of them to make matters safe. As you yourself say, she is in a state of
confusion. That is good.
"I made her trust me at the start. Then to clinch matters, I tried to
shatter her belief in her uncle. My plan did not work as I expected it. But it
did have a negative effect; it made the girl mistrust both her uncle and myself.
"Let her remain confused. Let her distrust everyone concerned. She will
seek new friends; and because of her mistrust, she will find safe ones. She
will go by the advice of some reputable lawyer; and I will defy any attorney to
uncover a joker in the will that I intend to have Myra sign.
"She will be advised to let it stand. We will still hold the upper hand.
But all this, Claig" - Kermal shook his shaggy head - "is useless speculation.
We are smart enough to come into the clear."
CLAIG looked unconvinced. Kermal became savage in his argument.
"I've told you," he asserted, "that we can explain Blissop's death. They
can never prove Yager's murder against us. The birds who finished him have
flown."
"A bad combination," reminded Claig. "I was afraid that matters would get
beyond us. But you were stubborn, Kermal. You insisted on acting as you have."
"We have Lanford as an ally," mused Kermal. "He will testify in our
behalf."
"Not when he learns what happened at the courthouse tonight."
"But Croy and Daggart will stand by."
"Croy, yes. But not Daggart. He will stick to his story regarding
Blissop's death, because he might be implicated. But when you are accused of
Yager's murder, Daggart will have qualms."
"How can he bring any charges against me?"
"He can't. But he will doubt you. He will no longer be whole-heartedly for
you. Whatever you do, Kermal, say nothing to Daggart about that crime downtown
tonight."
"You mean that even if I assured him that I did not order Yager's death he
would not believe me?"
"Daggart would not believe you. He knows your stubborn traits, Kermal. If
he grasps the idea that crooks are teamed up with us, he will desert us."
"And report Blissop's death in order to save his own hide?"
"Exactly. He would consider himself justified."
Claig paused. Kermal was about to speak when a light tap sounded at the
door. Kermal growled; Daggart entered. The secretary was bringing Lanford's
letter.
KERMAL read the epistle. He nodded in satisfaction, put the letter in its
envelope and thrust the latter into a larger wrapper, upon which he wrote an
address.
"The letter is all right, Claig," assured the lawyer. "Get it downtown
right away. I have addressed it to a friend in New York. He will mail Lanford's
letter back. Lanford addressed its envelope to Goodling."
Claig took the letter and departed. The Shadow saw Daggart watch the
physician's departure. Daggart's face looked pale and troubled. Kermal noted
the fact also.
"Good night, Daggart," said the lawyer. "It's time for sleep. If anything
worries you, we can talk about it in the morning."
The secretary nodded and went out by the door which he had entered. Kermal
glanced about the room; then went to the same door and turned out the lights.
The Shadow saw the hallway light as the lawyer opened the door; then the glow
was obscured as the barrier closed behind Kermal.
Curtains parted in darkness. Softly, The Shadow entered the living room.
From outside, he could hear the buzz of a motor. Doctor Claig was driving his
coupe from the garage.
Reaching the portal, The Shadow opened the door to find a darkened hall.
One glimmer of light was present; it came from beneath a door at the end of the
corridor. Softly, The Shadow stole in that direction.
He stopped when he reached the door itself. Shrouded amid darkness, The
Shadow paused to listen. The sound outside had faded. Claig had departed
townward. An absolute hush held sway throughout this entire house.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW'S PROMISE
Tap-tap - Tap-tap -
Myra Dolthan looked up, startled. The girl was seated in the corner of a
plainly furnished room, the apartment to which she had been assigned since the
arrival at Doctor Claig's.
Tap-tap - Tap-tap -
Myra smiled at her own fright. She laid aside the diary in which she was
writing and arose from beside a little table. She had recognized Daggart's
knock. This was probably another summons from Kermal. Myra supposed that the
lawyer wanted her to hold a new interview with Lanford.
"All right, Daggart," said Myra. "I am ready. Does Mr. Kermal want to see
me again?"
She was unlocking the door as she spoke. She thought she heard a response
in the secretary's voice. Myra opened the door. Eyes wide with amazement, she
stared across the threshold.
Before her, Myra saw an incredible figure. The darkness of the hall
enshrouded cloaked shoulders. That same gloom obscured the features of a face
beneath a slouch hat. Yet the girl could discern eyes - orbs of fire that shone
from beneath the hat brim.
A warning whisper stopped the startled exclamation that sprang to Myra's
lips. Silent, the girl stared into those burning eyes. Yet fear passed
instantly as Myra studied the glowing optics. Some mysterious flash of The
Shadow's eyes told her that this visitant was a friend.
The Shadow's gaze brought further understanding. Like speaking lips, those
eyes pronounced that their owner had come here secretly, that his presence in
this house was unknown to other occupants. Stepping back from the door, Myra
motioned for The Shadow to enter.
Blackness moved inward from the hall. The Shadow's outline formed a
clear-cut figure in the light. Silently, The Shadow closed the door. He turned
and spoke to Myra. The steadiness of his whisper gave the girl new confidence.
"I have seen," pronounced The Shadow. "I have heard. I am a friend. You
may speak. Tell me your real thoughts concerning Taussig Kermal."
The girl walked to the table. She picked up her diary, closed the book and
extended it to The Shadow. A gloved hand received the volume.
"I have kept this record," declared Myra. "You may have it. You must truly
be a friend; otherwise you could not be here. Of if you were an enemy" - the
girl managed a smile as she paused - "your purpose would be to kill me; not to
talk of the dangers which surround me."
MYRA had seated herself at the table. Her confidence in The Shadow was
amazing. Instinctively, the girl had recognized The Shadow as a protector. She
was anxious to unburden her troubled mind to this weird visitant who had
conquered obstacles to meet her.
"The book tells everything," declared Myra, her quiet eyes meeting The
Shadow's gaze, "and yet - and yet I do not fully understand. About Taussig
Kermal - about my uncle. I would have believed Mr. Kermal fully if he had not
spoken as he did of Uncle Rufus."
"State what Kermal said," ordained The Shadow.
"He told me that father had died suddenly." The girl's tone was sober. "He
said that the will placed my life in jeopardy. Should I die before I became
twenty-one, father's money would go to my stepbrother, George. I have always
liked George; but it is true that he is a weakling, as Mr. Kermal said.
"I do not doubt that George could be sent to prison by people who knew too
much about him. I believed it best to do as Mr. Kermal said. The old house where
we were seemed safe. I could see easily how my life would be sought by criminals
if they intended to blackmail George Garling, should he gain my father's wealth.
"But I could not understand why Mr. Kermal would not let me write to my
uncle. I asked him; he said, at first, that my uncle would disapprove of the
plan to keep me hidden. I insisted that I could persuade Uncle Rufus to make no
objection. Mr. Kermal said then that maybe our enemies were watching Uncle
Rufus. I became more persistent and finally Mr. Kermal said that my uncle was
the one enemy whom we must guard against."
THE girl paused. Her face was pale and troubled; her eyes had a far-away
stare as she recalled those discussions that she had held in the past.
"I told Mr. Kermal that I did not believe him," declared Myra, firmly. "He
broke into a tirade against my uncle. He - he said that he believed my father
feared my uncle. That - that my father's death looked like murder.
"He claimed that!" The girl's tone, though low, was indignant. "Mr. Kermal
declared that Uncle Rufus first managed to poison my father. So cleverly was it
done that no trace could be discovered; and that his next move would be to kill
me.
"In my case, Mr. Kermal said, there would be no attempt at strategy. Any
form of death would do, so long as I died before I came of age. Each day seemed
more desperate; and yet I felt forced to trust in Mr. Kermal."
"Your reason," ordered The Shadow. "State why you still trusted Kermal."
"I knew that I was safe with him," explained Myra. "Events had proven
that. Doctor Claig, too, seemed very kind. But when Blissop was killed, I - I
began to wonder. That is why I warned the two men who came to the house."
"Give your recollection of Blissop's death," commanded The Shadow.
"It happened while I was upstairs," declared Myra. "At the other house. I
heard the shots. I came down and saw Daggart wounded. Blissop was dead; Croy
had killed him. Croy said that he had slain Blissop to save Daggart.
"Croy seemed honest. But Blissop had seemed honest, too. I think Croy did
act to save Daggart. But Croy is stupid at times; Blissop was a much more
intelligent man. I wondered if Blissop really was a traitor.
"Suppose that Mr. Kermal was the one who really plotted against my life;
not Uncle Rufus, as he suggests. Croy would not have seen that Mr. Kermal was
evil; but Blissop could have. He might have been acting to help me when Croy
killed him."
Again the girl paused. The Shadow spoke:
"Tonight," he whispered, "you spoke as though you partly trusted Kermal.
You managed well with it. You covered most of the doubts that you must feel."
Myra nodded her understanding. She realized that somehow The Shadow had
been present at that interview. She gave her explanation.
"I have realized that I must cover my mistrust," she declared. "I am safe
here for the present. But I fear Mr. Kermal. I know that the crisis may come
soon. When he told me those lies about Uncle Rufus, I realized what his own
game could be.
"Whether or not I do have enemies at present, I could certainly have one
after I become of age. The one I mean is Mr. Kermal himself. He may be planning
crime of his own, telling me these stories in order to cover his own plot.
"When I am twenty-one, my father's wealth will be mine. I am actually in
the power of Mr. Kermal and Doctor Claig. If they should threaten me, I should
be forced to sign away my wealth to them. Mr. Kermal says he merely wants me to
sign a will, leaving my money to some charitable organization, instead of to
George Garling.
"And yet - yet I can no longer believe him. His statements about Uncle
Rufus; his policy of hiding; the fact that he has covered Blissop's death - all
these things frighten me. Today is the fifteenth. My birthday is the eighteenth.
Once midnight of the seventeenth has passed -"
THE girl stopped speaking. She shuddered; her lips trembled with
suppressed fear. The Shadow spoke; his voice held a calmness that quieted
Myra's alarm.
The Shadow raised his left hand and drew back the glove that covered it.
Myra observed a glowing gem. It was a magnificent opal, its depths as
mysterious as The Shadow's eyes.
"This girasol," affirmed The Shadow, "is my token. You will recognize me
by it, no matter what my guise. Have no fear; you are safe for the present.
Before danger strikes, I shall be here."
The Shadow stepped to the window. He unlatched folding shutters and drew
one inward. Bars gleamed beyond. The girasol glittered as The Shadow pointed to
the rods of steel.
"They have told you," he stated, "that those bars are to protect you. But
to you - not fully trusting - those bars make this room a prison."
The girl nodded. She was amazed at The Shadow's statement. Kermal and
Claig had spoken of the bars the night that Myra had occupied this room. The
Shadow closed the shutter.
"Keep these shutters closed," he warned, "as you have been instructed. As
for the bars, I shall deal with them tonight. Beyond this window you can see
the upper story of the garage. My station will be there. You can signal me,
should fear compel you.
"I shall know when danger threatens. I shall return at that hour. You will
answer when you hear my summons" - slowly, The Shadow delivered four slow taps
upon the table, with his gloved hand - "and you will know me by my token."
The Shadow raised his left hand. Myra stared once more at the girasol,
fascinated by its changing hues. Then the glove moved over the gem, blotting
out its hypnotic radiance.
Myra saw a flash of crimson as The Shadow moved toward the door. The weird
visitor opened the barrier; his form merged with the blackness of the hall. The
door closed, leaving Myra stilled with wonderment.
To the girl, the episode was like a dream. Yet her diary was gone; sure
proof that this being from the night had been a reality. Moreover, The Shadow's
presence had brought a calmness that remained. Myra Dolthan's fears were allayed.
OUTSIDE the house, The Shadow was descending by the window through which
he had entered. He reached the ground; he faded toward the garage as he saw
lights coming up the road. Doctor Claig's coupe rolled into the drive. A
stooped figure appeared from the direction of the house. It was Croy.
The Shadow watched the big servant enter the garage. Peering through a
window, he saw Croy and Claig jacking up an old sedan in the corner. This was
the car that Croy had used earlier; they were fixing it so that it would appear
to have been long since out of commission.
The coupe's lights went out; Claig and Croy stumbled through darkness to
the house. The Shadow let them pass, then entered the garage. He waited there a
few minutes; then blinked his light along the floor. He found a third vehicle
parked in the garage. It was an old station wagon that Claig had used in the
past.
The Shadow's light showed the right rear tire. The Shadow recognized the
tread that he had seen on the road from the rear of the old house. The station
wagon was the vehicle in which the furnishings had been brought here.
The flashlight blackened. The Shadow stole from the garage, glided to the
back road and coasted away in Clyde's coupe. Reaching Sheffield, he parked the
car and entered the hotel.
He arrived at the room which his agents occupied. There he unlocked the
door. Clyde and Harry were asleep in their beds.
From a large suitcase belonging to Harry Vincent, The Shadow brought out
boxlike objects: items of special radio equipment. He produced wires and
earphones; in their place he left a sealed envelope. Carrying his new burdens,
he glided from the room and locked the door behind him.
LATER, he arrived on foot at Doctor Claig's. Entering the garage, The
Shadow found the door to the unoccupied upper floor. He went up the stairs,
left the articles that he was carrying and descended. His figure glided to the
house, directly beneath Myra's room.
Scaling the wall in darkness, The Shadow gripped the outside bars. They
were built into the masonry; The Shadow attacked them in the darkness with a
sharp, glistening saw that cut its way steadily through the steel. He seemed
untiring as he proceeded with this task, gripping the solid bars as he worked
to weaken others.
At last, the central bars, though apparently untampered, were cut to a
point where a single twist would break them. Loosening his hold, The Shadow
dropped easily to the ground. The moonlight gave only a passing glimpse of his
gliding figure as he returned to the garage.
Only Myra Dolthan had heard the sound of The Shadow's sawing. Half asleep,
the girl had scarcely noticed the sound until just before The Shadow's task was
completed. Rising, Myra went to the window and cautiously unlatched a shutter.
She peered out into the moonlight.
A blink came from an upstairs window of the garage. It was repeated. Myra
understood. The Shadow had discerned her face behind the barred window of her
room. His glimmers were a signal that all was well. The Shadow had kept his
promise. Myra knew that the bars of her window were formidable no longer.
She knew also that her mysterious protector had taken his new post. Day
and night, The Shadow would be ready to aid her should danger strike. Myra
smiled as she looked out into the moonlight. With a happy heart she closed the
shutters and dropped the latch in place.
Whatever the answer to the complex problems that, confronted her, the girl
felt confident that her security was assured. Somehow, she held the belief that
The Shadow had delved deeply into the plots that up to now had threatened her.
The Shadow knew. Withholding action for the present, he was baiting men of
crime. When the stage would be set for an exposure of evil schemes, The Shadow
would be prepared.
CHAPTER XIV
THE LAW'S QUEST
IT was the next afternoon. A sultry haze clung to the slopes of the
horizon about Sheffield. An ominous touch seemed present on the countryside.
This was apparent to Doctor Leo Claig as he sat in an old rocker on the front
porch of his prisonlike house.
The physician was puffing mildly at a briar pipe. A casual observer would
have considered him complacent. But all the while, Claig's watchful eyes were
shrewdly gazing toward roads and hillsides. He was studying the toylike figures
of searching men. Jay Goodling had ordered a search throughout the county.
Deputies had passed during the day. Some had seen Doctor Claig standing in
his doorway; others had noted him rocking in his porch chair. All had waved
friendly greetings, which Claig had returned. None, however, had heard the mild
chuckles that the physician uttered after they had passed.
Sunset was approaching. Claig's gaze turned westward. The watchful man saw
wearied figures against the sky. Searchers were inward bound. Cutting across
fields, they would pass by the house. They had evidently chosen Claig's as a
landmark on which to take bearings.
A motor throbbed from the road. Claig looked in that direction to see a
sedan roll in the driveway. An arm waved from the driver's seat. Jay Goodling
alighted; then Clyde Burke. Following them came Roy Parrell and a stocky man
who was evidently one of Parrell's investigators.
The group approached the porch. Doctor Claig arose, knocked the ashes from
his pipe and leaned against a thin pillar. He waited until Goodling was almost
to the porch; then drawled:
"Any luck, prosecutor?"
"No, doctor," returned Goodling. "We're ending the hunt for today. Driving
around to bring in the searchers. There come some of them now."
He waved toward the stragglers who were coming across the field. The
leader of the searchers waved in return. Claig recognized him as Carter.
"I'm posting men on all the roads," stated Goodling. "Even though that
fellow Kermal is hiding out somewhere about, he won't be able to leave the
county. Tomorrow, we'll have another big hunt."
"No clues?" queried Claig. "Nothing on the car that Croy was driving?"
"Not a thing. Burke says it was a sedan; but he's not sure of the make. It
was an old bus, a dark color - that's all he knows."
"Too bad," mused Claig, studying Clyde. "It would have helped you,
Goodling, had he noted it more closely."
PARRELL had strolled out from the porch. The private detective was
studying Claig's house curiously, looking up toward barred and shuttered
windows. The physician noted this from the corner of his eye. Methodically,
Claig pulled a tobacco pouch from his pocket and began to stuff his pipe.
"Lucky I'm still living here," he chuckled. "Otherwise those rogues might
have chosen this house instead of the one on Dobson's Road. That's the trouble
with a place in the country. You can't leave it empty."
The remarks, although addressed to Goodling, had been for Parrell's
benefit. The detective ended his inspection and strolled up to the porch.
"This was your sanitarium?" questioned Parrell.
Claig nodded.
"You must have had a lot of customers once," added Parrell.
"I did," chuckled Claig. "Always at least a dozen patients. Do you know,
yesterday, I was thinking I might go into business again. With everybody
looking for a house that had vanished from the old Westbury road, I thought I
would find a lot of nervous cases right in Sheffield."
"It had me guessing," put in Goodling. "It did seem like a pipe dream,
Claig. But matters are serious right now. I'm mighty worried about Fred
Lanford. He may be in greater danger than Myra Dolthan."
"He won't be after tomorrow night," stated Parrell. "Don't forget that,
prosecutor. The girl's birthday comes on the eighteenth. We've got to find her
before tomorrow at midnight."
Carter and his men arrived. The deputy clambered upon the porch and mopped
his brow. He looked tired; his gaze wandered toward Goodling's sedan.
"Say, prosecutor," suggested Carter, "if you could send some cars up from
Sheffield, we'd appreciate it plenty. The boys are pretty worn out, ploughing
through some of that soggy ground. I can keep them here until the cars come,
instead of tramping into town."
"Don't know that I can help you, Carter," returned Goodling. "Most of the
available cars are off in other parts of the county."
"I have just what you want, Carter," announced Claig. He removed his pipe
from his lips and used it to point toward the rear of the house. "My old
station wagon's out there and I've no present use for it. If you can manage to
start it, you can take the whole bunch along to town."
"That's great, doctor," returned Carter. "Who knows enough about cars to
give me a hand?"
Clyde Burke volunteered. He went along with Carter to the garage. They
opened the sliding door and found the station wagon. Clyde noted the old sedan
jacked up in the corner, beyond Claig's coupe. He made no comment. Carter was
testing the starter; he discovered that the battery in the station wagon was
low. He decided to use the crank.
Another man entered while Carter was cranking. It was Roy Parrell. The
detective noted the sedan; observing that it was jacked up, he decided that it
had long been out of use. He climbed into the station wagon when Carter called
for cooperation with the accelerator.
After a few crankings, the station wagon started. Parrell shifted over
from the driver's seat, pulling the hand throttle to make the motor roar.
Carter took the wheel and backed the vehicle from the garage. He swung
about in the drive and headed toward the house.
CLYDE BURKE was closing the sliding, door. Gloom had pervaded the old
garage. The door almost closed. Clyde stopped as he heard a warning whisper.
Turning about, the reporter saw a door that stood a trifle ajar.
"Report."
Clyde heard The Shadow's quiet order. He approached and spoke brief
details regarding the fruitless search. The Shadow's whisper delivered brief
instructions. A gloved hand emerged from the blackness beyond the stairway door.
Clyde received a small book: Myra Dolthan's diary. The reporter placed the
volume in his inside pocket, nodded his understanding and stepped from the
garage. He slid the big door tightly shut; then walked across the drive, past
the house until he reached the porch in front.
The motor of the station wagon was still roaring. The deputies were
aboard; Carter at the wheel. Doctor Claig, pipe in hand, was shouting above the
tumult.
"Put a service battery in it, Carter," the physician was ordering. "Have
mine recharged. Keep the old wagon as long as you want. If you pay for the
recharging of the battery, we'll call it square."
Carter nodded; then drove away. The sun had set; long streaks of gloom
presaged the coming darkness. Jay Goodling motioned to his companions. They
walked to the prosecutor's car, Claig accompanying them.
"Well, Parrell," said Goodling, "I'm mighty sorry that you've gained no
good news for Rufus Dolthan. My only hope is that some of the other searchers
may have had some luck. Your other two men are out with them, aren't they?"
"Over toward Westbury," replied Parrell. "That's where they went; probably
they're back by now, though. By the way, Doctor Claig, do you have a telephone
here?"
The physician nodded.
"Rufus Dolthan is staying at the Weatherby Hotel," explained Parrell. "He
has Souder with him; and, of course, Wurling and Hazzler came in this morning,
bringing my three operatives. But they're not much help."
"You mean that Mr. Dolthan is subject to illness?" questioned Claig.
"Yes," replied the detective. "He is extremely nervous; and failure to
find his niece may be too much of a strain for him. I wanted to be sure that
you were available."
"Absolutely," assured Claig. "Call me at any time, Parrell. Or stop by, if
you wish. I'm a regular owl - always awake half the night."
GOODLING'S car pulled away, carrying the last of the visitors. Doctor
Claig stood alone, puffing at his pipe. As he smoked, the physician delivered a
contemptuous snort that ended in a chuckle.
He had disposed of these unwanted guests in gilt-edged fashion. Claig's
lips showed a hard smile as he walked back to the house.
The physician thought that eyes were no longer observing him. He was wrong
in that supposition. From a darkened window upstairs in the garage, glittering
optics were viewing Claig, noting his gestures and expressions from a distance
of thirty feet.
A whispered laugh crept through a dusk-filled room as Claig passed from
view. Well did The Shadow know the game that lay at stake. He could end Claig's
bluff the moment that he chose to do so.
CHAPTER XV
THE LAST DAY
TWENTY-FOUR hours had elapsed. Again, darkness had settled over the town
of Sheffield. Searchers had scoured the terrain in vain. This - by Roy
Parrell's statement - marked the end of the law's last chance.
Clyde Burke was standing at the window of his hotel room. By the inner
wall, Harry Vincent was tuning in with a small radio, the duplicate of the
device that The Shadow had removed from his suitcase, two nights before.
"Here comes the station wagon," informed Clyde. "Carter and half a dozen
deputies are in it. They're parking alongside of the hotel, in that empty
space. They look mighty tired."
"Are they all going off duty?" questioned Harry.
"Not a chance," replied Clyde. "Goodling is not through by a long shot.
He's posting all those fellows along the roads. He'll start another hunt
tomorrow."
"Hoping that the girl will still be alive?"
"Yes. He says it's the only bet. He's sure that Kermal is still somewhere
in the county. He doesn't think the lawyer will take a chance on murdering Myra
Dolthan until he has a chance to get the girl away from here."
"What's Parrell's opinion?"
"He's doubtful. Says it might work either way. Blissop was murdered in
this county; so was Yager. Why should Kermal worry about the law?"
"What does he recommend?"
"To keep on with the search tonight. But Goodling won't agree. He says
that it's best to watch the roads. They might try a get-away from their new
hide-out."
There was a pause. Clyde strolled in from the window. Harry had set the
radio dial as he wanted it. Clyde opened the door, peered into the hall; then
closed the door and locked it.
"Craig was too smart for Parrell," he stated in a low tone. "I watched
Parrell when we were up there yesterday. He looked at the old sedan; but never
guessed that it could have been the one Croy had used."
"It's good he didn't," said Harry. "He'd probably have asked you about it."
"Yes. That would have put me in the bluffer class, with Claig. Of course,
I could have gotten away with it; but it was better I didn't have to. It had me
shaky, for a minute."
"What about that letter Goodling received today?"
"The one from Lanford? Both Goodling and Parrell figured it for a bluff.
Lanford could have written it under orders."
"Didn't sound as though Lanford meant it?"
"Yes; but it was too vague. Goodling and Parrell agreed that Lanford might
have listened to some hokum from Kermal. The lawyer is a smart bird, you know."
"Undoubtedly."
HARRY became thoughtful. Clyde watched him. The reporter knew what was
passing in his friend's mind. Harry was thinking of The Shadow, speculating on
what the chief intended.
It was seldom that the agents discussed their superior's methods; but on
this occasion, Harry seemed inclined to forgo the usual custom.
"Our job is coming," said Harry, slowly. "It's for tonight, Clyde; we know
that much. We'll do what we're told when we receive final orders. At the same
time -"
"I know," interposed Clyde. "You're wondering just how the parties are
going to react. It has me guessing, too."
"Kermal is powerless until after midnight," declared Harry. "Of course,
its possible that he might murder Myra before then. He could make her sign
documents at any time; then have them witnessed afterward. But that would be a
dangerous procedure."
"Absolutely," agreed Clyde. "Particularly if he had Lanford buffaloed. He
can use Lanford as a witness, you know, and if Lanford swears later that he saw
Myra alive after she became of age, it would be an important point."
"Myra is safe enough for the present," affirmed Harry. "We know that The"
- he paused, catching himself before he mentioned The Shadow's name aloud -
"well, we know she's under protection. There's only one answer to it, Clyde."
"What's that?"
"A show-down. At midnight. That's the time when Kermal will have reached
his goal."
"That's right, Harry."
"And it's also the finish line for Rufus Dolthan's hopes. Rufus Dolthan
will be desperate; Taussig Kermal will be triumphant."
"Kermal's wariness will be ended."
"Absolutely. And yet, when the break comes, Clyde -"
"Well?"
"It can't strike right at midnight. The time element would be too close."
Another pause. This time it was Clyde's quick brain that found an answer.
"I've got it, Harry!" exclaimed the reporter. Then, lowering his voice:
"Look here: Kermal must have some details to make ready. Preparing documents,
smoothing Lanford, getting everything ready. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"When will he do all that? I'll tell you. Before midnight. He'll have
everything set; he'll be waiting for the stroke of the gong."
"That's logical, Clyde."
"Allow him an hour - between eleven and twelve. That's the crucial time.
That's when Kermal will be all set for triumph, but Dolthan and Parrell will
still have a chance to stop him. If -"
Clyde cut it short. A faint buzz was coming from the radio. Harry was
listening to the call. Quickly, he began to manipulate his own set. Like The
Shadow, Harry could send. He and his chief were in short-wave communication.
Faint, barely audible, those coded sentences. Toned low so that chance
listeners might not even hear them, Harry caught a question that The Shadow was
sending from Claig's garage. He spoke to Clyde.
"What about Goodling's men?" he queried. "Are they using the station wagon
tonight?"
"No," replied Clyde. "They didn't use it last night. The road-watching
groups are too small. They need something faster than the wagon, anyway. It's
only used for bringing in a big crowd during the day."
HARRY was already sending a reply. Clyde heard instructions follow from
The Shadow; but he was not close enough to catch the code. Harry nodded; but
did not speak. He sent his acknowledgment. Then came another query. Harry
questioned Clyde this time.
"Goodling will be at the courthouse?"
"Either there or over here with Rufus Dolthan."
"Parrell and his men?"
"Here, with Dolthan."
"Deputies?"
"Maybe a few will be available. Not many."
Harry sent this information. He received another query and answered it.
Then came a signal that Clyde recognized. The Shadow was signing off. Harry
acknowledged.
He turned the dial, made some adjustments and strolled away from the
radio. The soft melody of music came over the air. Harry had tuned in on a New
York station. The set was giving normal reception.
"We're right," Harry told Clyde. "Eleven is the zero hour. That's when the
move must start up to Claig's. You're to be in on it, while I'm up here; that
is, you'll be with Rufus Dolthan, Roy Parrell and Jay Goodling when they plan
their action."
"And after that?"
"You're to hop up here. I'm supposed to be in bed. That is, I will be at
eleven o'clock. I'm no nighthawk, like the Classic bunch. I represent the
National Press Association."
Clyde chuckled.
"I'm glad the rest of the reporters went back to town," he remarked.
"They're going to miss a story. Go ahead, Harry - after I get up here -"
"You'll know the plans. I'll send the details by the short-wave set. But
we'll probably be heading out on our own. In your car. Unless, of course,
there's some hitch that forces a change."
"But suppose I'm wanted by Goodling and the others?"
"Then I can go out alone, using your car. You won't need it if you're with
them."
Clyde nodded his understanding. The Shadow always provided for
emergencies. Whatever tonight's mission might be, one agent would be available
for it if both were not.
"Get that diary of Myra Dolthan's," said Harry. "It's in the secret pocket
of my suitcase. Here's one point, Clyde; you've got to start the fireworks. The
question is, can you ring Parrell in on it? Can you get him out of the hotel?
Just for a stroll - any pretext - just so you'll have a chance to steer him on
a job of sleuthing that he'll think is his own?"
Clyde pondered.
"If you can't," said Harry, "you can do the job alone. But if you can
bring in Parrell -"
"I've got it!" interrupted Clyde. "Yesterday, Parrell whiffed some smoke
from Claig's pipe. The doctor was smoking when we were up there. The aroma
suited Parrell and he dug out a swell briar of his own. He was smoking it
today."
"Well?"
"He left it in Goodling's office. Parrell will be wondering where he
dropped it. Let's go and see if it's still there."
"Fine. Bring the diary."
FIVE minutes later, The Shadow's agents strolled into Goodling's office.
The prosecutor was out to dinner; but he never locked his door. The lights were
on; and Clyde spied a pipe on the desk. The reporter recognized it as Parrell's.
"Pocket it," whispered Harry. Then, as they strolled out through the
vacated corridor, he questioned: "Didn't I see Parrell in the station wagon
about the middle of the afternoon?"
"Yes," replied Clyde. "He was in the front seat, talking with Carter. That
was just after Carter came in to report no luck to Goodling."
"That's great!" Harry chuckled as they reached the street. He looked
across to the spot where the station wagon was parked near a big limousine that
belonged to Rufus Dolthan. "We'll have some planting to do, Clyde. We'll have
dinner first; then take in a movie. It will be after ten by then. I'll do the
planting; you'll handle the rest."
"What's the stunt, Harry?"
They had reached the little restaurant where they usually ate. Harry
motioned for silence. He whispered last words as they entered.
"I'll tell you after dinner, Clyde," said Harry. "When we're in the movie,
you can slip me the pipe and the diary."
They sat down at a table. Clyde was still half mystified. But Harry wore a
smile. He knew that The Shadow's orders could be carried through with ease.
Clyde Burke would understand as well, as soon as Harry could give him three
minutes of explanation.
The Shadow had planned a simple process which would bring confusion to
those who schemed in crime. Yet Clyde Burke had not guessed what was due, even
though Clyde was a keen thinker. That, to Harry, was merely new proof that
facts, though simple, were not necessarily obvious.
Harry felt secret elation as he noticed Clyde's thoughtful perplexity. He
felt, for the moment, that he had gained the edge in a bit of friendly rivalry.
Soon, however, Clyde would know all that Harry knew.
That, oddly, would prove to be less than Harry Vincent supposed. For while
his agents were studying the surfaces of crime development, The Shadow had
delved into the depths. Where others guessed, The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ZERO HOUR
IT was a quarter of eleven when Clyde Burke stopped in front of a door on
the second floor of the Weatherby Hotel. The reporter rapped for admittance. A
voice called for him to enter. Clyde stepped into the living room of the only
suite that the hotel boasted.
Rufus Dolthan was seated in an easy-chair. His kindly face seemed haggard;
yet his restlessness was a sign that he still possessed stamina. Clyde noticed
that the gray-haired man was clutching the arms of his chair, as though to
suppress a maddened desire for hopeless action.
Roy Parrell looked chunky as he stood beside Dolthan's chair. The
detective's wise face possessed a glumness. There was a third man in the room:
Jay Goodling. The prosecutor's youthful countenance seemed aged with worry.
"We are talking matters over, Mr. Burke," informed Dolthan, in a wearied
tone. "It is terrible, this suspense. As you know, Myra's fate may be decided
within a few hours. My word!" He turned appealingly to Parrell and Goodling.
"Is there nothing we can do?"
"We can only wait, Mr. Dolthan," returned Goodling. "I'm positive that
this county still harbors those criminals - Kermal and his fellows - and I
believe that in spite of Lanford's letter. Remember, sir: Fred Lanford is my
closest friend. This situation grieves me deeply."
"But Kermal may murder Myra -"
"And Lanford also, if it suits him. They are both in grave danger,
wherever they are."
"And you, Parrell" - Dolthan spoke sharply to the detective - "you have
failed me in this crisis. I have paid you well, because millions are at stake.
Have you no suggestions whatever?"
Parrell shook his head. He, too, was becoming restless. Clyde could see
desperation in the detective's air. Idly, the reporter drew a new pipe and a
package of fine smoking mixture from his pocket. He extended the package to
Parrell.
"Fill up, old man," suggested Clyde. "A good pipe smoke clears the
cobwebs. That briar of yours is a sweet one."
Parrell nodded and began to fumble in his pocket. His pipe was missing.
Goodling made a remark.
"Your pipe is over in my office, Parrell," he said. "I believe that you
left it on my desk."
"I'll walk over with you while you get it," put in Clyde. "How about it,
Parrell?"
Clyde had filled his own pipe and was lighting it. The aroma of the
tobacco brought a nod from Parrell. Clyde had chosen a mixture well filled with
perique. The odor was effective.
TOGETHER, reporter and detective left the hotel and reached Goodling's
office. Parrell was silent during the walk; he stared glumly after turning on
the lights and noting no pipe on the prosecutor's desk.
"Goodling must have been seeing things," he grumbled. "I wonder where I
could have dropped that briar. Let's see -"
"Didn't you have it this afternoon?" queried Clyde. "When you were in the
station wagon with Carter?"
"That's right, Burke," recalled Parrell. "The old bus is parked alongside
of Mr. Dolthan's limousine, isn't it? Let's take a look over there."
They left the courthouse and approached the station wagon. Parrell
produced a flashlight and looked about the front seat. He saw no sign of the
pipe; but he noticed a space between the seat and the side of the car. He drew
the seat forward.
"Here's the pipe, all right," exclaimed the detective. "But say - what's
this?"
The diary was lying below the pipe. Harry Vincent had planted them
effectively. Parrell opened the book with his left hand while he held the
flashlight with his right. A sudden cry came from his lips.
"This book is Myra Dolthan's!" blurted the detective. "In the girl's
handwriting. Here, in Claig's station wagon. She must have dropped it. Say,
Burke didn't Claig tell Carter he might have a tough time starting this old
bus?"
"That's what he said," nodded Clyde. "I heard him."
"But Carter had no trouble," added Parrell. "Say, Burke - do you remember
an old sedan up in Claig's garage?"
"The one that was jacked up?"
"Yes. Did it look anything like the boat that Croy was in the night he
snatched Lanford?"
"A whole lot, Parrell. But I didn't think anything about it at the time.
Claig's sedan looked out of use. It could have been the car Croy was in though.
Maybe it was the car."
"Come on." Parrell grabbed Clyde's arm. "We're hopping up to see Dolthan
and the prosecutor! Pronto."
They hurried into the hotel and took the stairs on the run. Parrell barged
into Dolthan's living room and thrust the diary into the hands of Myra's uncle.
Excitedly, the detective told how they had made the find. He added the
comments that Clyde had given concerning the old sedan in Claig's garage.
"This is incredible!" exclaimed Goodling. "A man of Doctor Claig's
reputation would not assist criminals. I cannot believe that he aided them in
their departure from the old house on Dobson's Road."
"He has done more than aid them," retorted Parrell. "He is harboring them.
Why do you think we haven't been able to locate Kermal? I'll tell you why - it's
because he's hiding out in the one place we've never looked. In the upstairs
part of Claig's house!"
"But - but -"
GOODLING stopped short as he spluttered. This suggestion of Parrell's was
a powerful one. The prosecutor realized suddenly that those upper stories of
Claig's old sanitarium afforded every advantage as a refuge for Kermal and his
band. Nevertheless, the prosecutor finally shook his head.
"I have too much faith in Claig," he asserted. "He has lived hereabouts
for years. Even supposing that he has listened to crooks, why should he commit
the folly of using his own property as their lair?"
"He didn't," returned Parrell. "Not at first. Who do you suppose wised
Kermal to that old house where you and Lanford first went? How did Kermal learn
of it?"
"Someone hereabouts could have told him."
"That's just it. And who would be most likely? Doctor Claig. You're right,
prosecutor; he didn't want to jeopardize himself by letting Kermal use his own
place. He didn't at first. He steered Kermal to the house on Dobson's Road. But
when the emergency landed, he brought the works to his own hang-out. It was the
only way out in the pinch."
"Parrell is correct," declared Dolthan, with a dignified nod. "Men of
repute will do much, prosecutor, when they see an opportunity for huge wealth.
We can consider Doctor Claig more charitably than we can Taussig Kermal. Claig
was tempted by a fiend's offer. He allowed himself to become a party to crime."
Dolthan's heatless words were convincing. The gray-haired man showed
sorrow rather than anger. A thought came to Goodling; he himself expressed the
next statement in the argument against Claig's integrity.
"Fred Lanford's letter," mused the prosecutor. "It seemed genuine; yet it
indicated that he was trying to lead the trail away from here. Fred would not
have allowed Kermal to influence him. Fred was encouraged by someone in whom he
had confidence.
"Doctor Claig could have influenced Fred Lanford. What is more, Claig
could have sent that letter to New York, so someone would return it here. As I
review this case, I realize that Claig has shown unusual interest in it. Too
much interest for one who is merely a retired physician."
"He bluffed us yesterday," asserted Parrell. "Up there on his porch.
Acting as a blind. Offering Carter his station wagon."
"And Myra a prisoner in his house," groaned Dolthan. "Her day of doom
approaching."
"Craig is as crooked as Kermal," barked Parrell. "Why try to be easy with
him? He's the fellow, right enough, who jabbed you and Lanford with the
hypodermic, prosecutor. Being a doctor, he'd have had a needle with him. He's a
crook -"
"Calm yourself, Parrell." It was Dolthan who interrupted. He had risen
from his chair and was surveying the others with dignity. "Doctor Claig may not
know the depths of Kermal's schemes. We can learn the physician's story later.
Our present duty is to rescue my niece and this poor chap, Lanford."
"Right!" agreed Goodling. "We'll get to the bottom of this business. I'll
gather thirty men; we'll smash into Claig's if necessary."
"ONE moment." Dolthan's raised hand stopped Goodling as the latter was
about to pick up the telephone. "Tell me, prosecutor, where are these men whom
you intend to summon?"
"Out guarding the roads," returned Goodling. "I'll have them all in here
and on their way to Claig's within two hours."
"That will be too late." Dolthan's tone was solemn. "It is already eleven.
At midnight, Myra becomes of age. Kermal will force her to sign away her wealth
the moment that she is legally twenty-one. Her life will then be at stake."
"That's true," added Parrell. "What's more, prosecutor, Kermal will have
to kill her in a pinch. He'll bump Lanford, too, if he knows his game is up.
He'll know it, right enough, when a whole squadron comes banging in on him."
"We must use strategy," announced Dolthan. "Moreover, we cannot spare
another precious minute. Tell me, prosecutor, have you no men available here?"
"There's a deputy named Derry downstairs," replied Parrell. "But I'll need
him to round up the men on the roads. We certainly should arrange to cut off any
flight by Kermal."
"Positively," nodded Dolthan. "That move will be essential, prosecutor.
But in the meantime, we must arrange some immediate action. Come, come,
Parrell" - Dolthan turned to the detective - "show your ability, man. How can
we surmount this emergency?"
"We'll have to consider Doctor Claig first," responded Parrell promptly.
"He's the blind. If we can get past him easily, we'll be where we want. Listen,
prosecutor" - he swung to Goodling - "do you remember how Claig invited us to
stop in any time?"
Goodling nodded.
"I told him, too," continued Parrell, "that we might need him as physician
for Mr. Dolthan?"
Again Goodling nodded.
"That's our bet then," decided Parrell. "You and I can drive up to
Claig's. He'll let us in, all right. We'll tell him Mr. Dolthan is very ill."
"Won't Claig wonder?" queried Goodling. "He will want to know why we did
not call him by telephone."
"We'll explain that, prosecutor. Tell him that Mr. Dolthan claims he
doesn't want to see a doctor. Worriment over Myra. Claig will fall for it."
"And accompany us down here? That would give Kermal an opportunity to
suspect a ruse on our part."
"We won't leave the place. We'll corner Claig and cover him. Then our way
will be clear. We'll go upstairs and pounce on Kermal. He'll think it's Claig."
"But there are only two of us, Parrell. I cannot get deputies on such
short order."
"I have three operatives here. Trained detectives. We'll take them along
in your car. They can follow us in."
GOODLING'S expression showed prompt enthusiasm. He urged Parrell to the
telephone. The detective began to call the rooms in which his men were staying.
Goodling turned to Dolthan, who offered a further suggestion.
"Use strategy, prosecutor," urged Dolthan. "Lives are at stake. Would that
I could accompany you. Indeed, I shall follow you and Parrell; but of course, I
shall remain far enough away not to excite suspicion.
"Parrell has never seen either Kermal or Myra. Of course, you have - that
night you were at the old house - so that will satisfy for immediate
identification. But when I see them also, there can be no doubt."
"It's best to have you close by, Mr. Dolthan," assured Goodling. "After
all, once we are actually upstairs in the house, there is no reason why you
should not approach."
"Souder!" called Dolthan. The long-faced man appeared from the other room.
"Summon Wurling and Hazzler at once. We are going out in the limousine."
Souder nodded and went to the telephone, which Parrell had relinquished.
Clyde Burke, silent until now, found chance to speak to Jay Goodling.
"How about myself, prosecutor," asked the reporter. "All right if I tag
along in my coupe. I'll keep far enough away from the house."
"All right," agreed Goodling. "What about this friend of yours, Vincent?
Are you taking him with you?"
"I can. He's asleep in his room right now."
"Better wake him. Then he'll be accounted for. I don't want anyone coming
up there unexpectedly to bungle our work."
Souder had finished his call for Wurling and Hazzler. Goodling took the
telephone to speak with Derry, the deputy who he had left in the lobby. Clyde
hurried from the room; in the hallway he ran into two of Parrell's husky
subordinates, coming in response to the detective's call.
Passing the fellows, Clyde dashed up the steps to the third floor. The way
was clear; but time was short. The Shadow's plan had worked; unexpected visitors
would soon be at the home of Doctor Leo Claig. In the brief interval that
remained, there would be important work for The Shadow's agents to perform.
CHAPTER XVII
MEN FROM THE NIGHT
HARRY VINCENT was already at the radio when Clyde Burke arrived in their
third-floor room. Harry had watched from the window after planting Parrell's
pipe and Myra's diary in the station wagon. He had seen Clyde and the detective
make their find. Harry had allowed a short interval; then had begun to signal
The Shadow.
An acknowledgment was sounding. As Clyde whispered details to Harry, the
latter sent through a coded message. The Shadow's reply was brief. Events had
shaped as he had anticipated them. Harry nodded as former instructions were
corroborated. The Shadow's signal came to sign off. Harry responded; he twisted
the dial and disconnected wiring. He nodded to Clyde.
Together, the agents headed downstairs. They had made the most of brief
minutes. The clock in the lobby showed twelve minutes after eleven. Goodling,
Parrell and the latter's three men were still upstairs. Clyde and Harry heard
their tramp in the hallway above.
Derry was in a telephone booth, sending out calls to the various posts
where deputies were watching roads. Clyde and Harry hurried out through the
side door, dashed past the station wagon and reached the reporter's coupe.
Clyde started the motor; they rolled away just as Goodling and Parrell
were coming out of the hotel with their party. The Shadow's agents took a rear
street; between buildings they saw the five men heading for the courthouse,
where Goodling's car was parked.
Clyde was taking the route that The Shadow had used when he had gone to
Claig's. A circling course that would bring them to that obscure road fringed
by trees, where not even the lights of the car could be seen from Claig's house.
The trip required less than one dozen minutes. As they curved into the old
road, at a point above Claig's, Clyde shut off the motor and switched off the
lights. Feeling his way by the ruts, the reporter coasted the car along the
road. He finally applied the brakes.
Both agents alighted. They crept up the bank of the road and passed a
cluster of bushes. The night was clouded; but they could discern the outline of
Claig's garage; they could also see the house beyond it.
As they waited, they saw a momentary glimmer from the near side of the
garage. It was The Shadow's signal; and meant that he would join them.
Watching tensely, Clyde saw a car approaching Claig's. Its lights were
coming up the regular road. The machine was Goodling's; the prosecutor was
using the strategy that he had planned with Parrell and Dolthan.
Then, as Goodling's car drew closer to the house, Harry pointed out other
lights. These were down the road; they slowed, stopped and finally blinked off.
"Dolthan's limousine," whispered Harry. "The chauffeur must have followed
pretty close after Goodling."
"They'll wait there," added Clyde. "Then they'll come closer after they
know that Goodling and Parrell are inside the house."
The comments ended. Both agents were silent, knowing that soon The Shadow
would arrive where they were stationed. Harry held a flashlight close against
the ground, ready to deliver a cautious answering glimmer the moment that The
Shadow gave an arriving blink from close at hand.
MEANWHILE, Goodling's car was slowly climbing the up grade to Claig's. The
prosecutor was making a cautious approach, despite the fact that there was
reason for the visit. He was not anxious that the physician should know of
their arrival until they rang the doorbell.
While he drove, Goodling exchanged comments with Parrell. In response to a
suggestion from the detective, the prosecutor swung wide as they entered the
drive and brought the car to a standstill at the very edge of the gravel.
This made the path easy for Parrell's three followers. The trio would be
able to avoid crunching gravel when they approached the house.
Goodling and Parrell alighted. Apparently their arrival had not been
heard. The lower floor of the house showed dim lights from various rooms.
Doctor Claig had applied his usual method of deceiving visitors. The county
prosecutor strolled slowly to the porch; the private detective followed at his
heels. Reaching their goal, they stopped at the door. Goodling rang the bell.
An interval followed. Goodling rang again. Two minutes of waiting; then a
light appeared suddenly upon the porch. The door opened; Doctor Claig appeared.
The physician smiled as he recognized his visitors.
"Well, well, Goodling," he ejaculated. "This is a surprise. I did not hear
your car arrive. You appear troubled. Have you come to report an illness in
town?"
Goodling nodded; it was Parrell, however, who spoke.
"We've come on account of Rufus Dolthan," he explained. "He is just about
beside himself, doctor. Pacing like a caged lion. Won't go to bed.
"We've got to get something to put him to sleep. Can't you fix up some
opiate for him? Something that will look like ordinary medicine? So he'll take
it?"
"I believe so," responded Claig. "Come in, gentlemen. We can go right into
my office."
The door closed as the three men entered. Darkness stirred in the
blackness beside the house. A cloak swished softly.
The Shadow had returned from his trip to the rear road. His business with
his agents was ended; his return journey had been accomplished with swiftness.
In fact, The Shadow had arrived just in time to catch the last of the
conversation between Doctor Claig and the physician's two visitors.
Listening, The Shadow heard sounds from Goodling's car. A door was opening
cautiously. Men were easing out into the darkness. The Shadow sensed that
Parrell's three aids were creeping toward the porch. He waited no longer.
Turning in the darkness, The Shadow skirted toward the rear of the building.
His course was untraceable.
INSIDE the house, Doctor Claig was holding consultation with Goodling and
Parrell. Head cocked, the white-haired physician was listening to the
detective's description of Rufus Dolthan's nervous symptoms. A ticking clock
showed the time as twenty-five minutes before twelve.
"I see," declared Claig, wisely. "Mr. Dolthan has reached a high pitch of
nervousness. Unquestionably, the strain has been too great for him. He must be
soothed. Quieted. Suppose I write you a prescription, Goodling? You can wake
Billings, the druggist, and he will prepare it for you. Let me see - where did
I place those prescription blanks?"
Claig opened a drawer with his left hand. He reached in with his right;
then stopped short as he heard a sharp remark from Parrell.
Looking over his shoulder, the doctor stared into the muzzle of a
stub-nosed revolver that the detective had brought from his pocket. Even
Goodling was momentarily surprised until he heard Parrell explain.
"You'll find a gun in that drawer," stated Parrell. "Take a look for it,
prosecutor. I know when a man's reaching for a gat. Claig was going to cover
us."
Goodling dived for the drawer. He uncovered an old-fashioned revolver.
Removing the weapon, the prosecutor cracked it open and found bullets in the
gun's five chambers. Pocketing the revolver, Goodling eyed Claig severely.
"I've had that gun for years," declared the physician, calmly. "Naturally,
I have it in an available place. It is dangerous to live out in the country,
Goodling. Everyone around here owns a gun."
"Hurry up, prosecutor," urged Parrell. "Don't let him pull a stall. He's
holding out for twelve o'clock. Trying to help Kermal's game."
For the first time, Claig lost his self-control The physician's face
darkened; an instinctive gasp came from his lips. It was enough for Goodling.
The prosecutor drew a .38 and covered the physician. He motioned Parrell to the
door; the detective grinned and nodded.
Sneaking out through the front hall, Parrell opened the big door and let
his three men enter. They followed him softly into the physician's office.
Goodling was questioning Claig; the doctor was preserving firm silence. As
the others appeared, Goodling stepped forward, gripped Claig's wrist and pulled
the physician to his feet. Searching Claig's pockets, Goodling found a large
key. He thrust it into Claig's hand.
"Move ahead of us, doctor," growled Goodling. "Unlock that door and lead
the way upstairs. I warn you - despite the fact that you were once my friend -
I shall riddle you with bullets if you display a sign of treachery."
With that cold statement, Goodling rammed the muzzle of his .38 between
Claig's shoulders. Parrell nodded to his men; they drew revolvers of their own.
Goodling forced Claig through the doorway to the hall. Key in hand, the
physician moved to the alcove and unlocked the door.
Covered by five men, Claig had no chance to resist. His role of blind had
ended; no longer could he cover Taussig Kermal's hide-out. With twenty minutes
still remaining before midnight, invaders were on the threshold of the crafty
lawyer's lair.
CHAPTER XVIII
COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE
UPSTAIRS in the luxurious room, Taussig Kermal was seated at his desk,
totally unaware of the coup that had been made downstairs. The lawyer had faith
in Doctor Claig's ability. The arrival of late callers had not perturbed him.
Moreover, Kermal had a reason for covering the slight concern that he did
feel. Fred Lanford was present in the room, watching him from a chair. Croy was
present also; the big servant had brought Lanford here only a few minutes before.
"Miss Dolthan will soon be with us, Lanford," declared Kermal. He looked
up from the desk, where his hand was resting upon a written document. "I just
sent Daggart to summon her. There are matters which I should like you to hear
when they are discussed."
"Concerning her estate?" inquired Fred.
"Yes," replied Kermal. "This document on my desk is a will. It stipulates
that her entire wealth is to go to certain charities. I want her to read it
before twelve o'clock; you will have opportunity to do the same. Then you can
sign as a witness when she affixes her signature."
Kermal looked toward the door to the hallway on the left. Daggart had not
reappeared; Kermal seemed perplexed. He turned his shaggy head and delivered a
command to Croy.
"Possibly Daggart misunderstood my order," said the lawyer. "Go and summon
Miss Dolthan, Croy. Then hunt up Daggart. He should be here also."
The ugly-faced servant nodded and made his departure. This time Kermal
showed anger as he glared toward the door on the right.
"What is keeping Claig?" he questioned. "He should certainly not be
dawdling at this late hour. If he has patients, why does he not hurry them from
his office?"
"They might become suspicious," replied Lanford.
"What does it matter?" demanded Kermal. "In twenty minutes we shall be
ready to call your friend Goodling and invite him here in person. Claig knows
that as well as I."
"Maybe he has an emergency case to hold him up."
"Never mind, Lanford. Here is Claig now."
The door was opening as Kermal spoke. Claig's figure came into view; the
doctor stared, pale faced, then stumbled into the room, impelled by a thrust.
As Kermal came to his feet, Goodling bounded through the doorway. With leveled
gun, the prosecutor covered the lawyer.
FOR a moment, Kermal appeared ready to spring forward in resistance; then
Parrell and the detectives bobbed into view. Revolvers glimmered; Kermal sank
back in his chair, glowering. Fred Lanford sprang to his feet, to give greeting
to his friend.
"Fred!" cried Goodling, with enthusiasm. "You're safe. Tell me - what
about the girl - is she all right?"
"Myra Dolthan?" returned Lanford. "Certainly, Jay. How did you happen to
get up here? Mr. Kermal wasn't going to call you until after midnight."
Goodling eyed Lanford in perplexity. Fred grinned as he thumped the
prosecutor on the shoulder.
"It's all jake, Jay," assured Lanford. "You got my letter, didn't you?"
"Certainly," retorted Goodling. "It said you were in New York. Instead,
you're here. That sounds bad for a start."
"Not when you know the facts," laughed Lanford. "Miss Dolthan is not a
prisoner. She is staying here of her own volition. I have talked with her. That
dead man, Blissop, was not murdered. He tried to kill Daggart. Croy had to shoot
him."
"What about Yager?"
"Yager? Who is he?"
"A squatter living out on Dobson's Road. Shot dead in my office, the same
night that you were abducted."
LANFORD stared. Parrell pressed forward and delivered a contemptuous
laugh. He stared at Kermal; then at Claig, who was backed in a corner near the
desk.
"Bluffed Lanford did you?" quizzed the detective. "I thought maybe that
would be your game. But you didn't have nerve enough to let him know you'd
rubbed out Yager."
"I had nothing to do with Yager's death," retorted Kermal, in a harsh
tone. "It was unnecessary to mention it to Lanford. It would have confused him."
"Have your men cover these doors," said Goodling, to Parrell. "I'm going
to have this out with Kermal. Those two rogues, Daggart and Croy, are somewhere
about. We must be ready for them."
With that, the prosecutor swung toward the desk. In challenging tones he
delivered an ultimatum to the shaggy-headed man who stood beyond.
"Your assassins slew Yager," accused Goodling. "You and your accomplices
are guilty of two murders, Kermal. We have come to remove Myra Dolthan from
your custody. Also to arrest your confederates. Tell me where they are."
"Speak up, Claig," rasped Kermal, turning to the lawyer. "This is your
house. These persons have entered without warrant. Order them to leave.
Prosecutor or no prosecutor, Goodling has no right here."
"I am investigating the deaths of Blissop and Yager," stormed Goodling. "I
am here also to find Myra Dolthan. Unless -"
He paused as he saw the paper on the desk. Snatching it up, Goodling began
to read the lines that Kermal had written. The lawyer chuckled.
"That," he explained, "is the will that Myra Dolthan will sign at
midnight. As you see, Goodling, it leaves all of her property to recognized
charities. It stands as proof of my sincerity. I am the girl's legal guardian
and will be" - he chuckled as he glanced at a clock on the desk - "for fifteen
minutes more. I refuse to have you interview her until after midnight. She will
be here at any moment" - Kermal paused to glance toward the door - "and I shall
advise her both as guardian and counsel."
GOODLING looked a trifle puzzled as he dropped the will back on the desk.
He stared at Kermal; then swung to Lanford. That young man nodded.
"It's on the level, Jay," Lanford told Goodling. "Give Kermal a chance to
explain. Doctor Claig will back up his statements. Kermal is working to protect
Myra Dolthan. Her real enemy is her uncle, Rufus Dolthan -"
Roy Parrell leaped forward in angry interruption. In maddened loyalty to
his employer, the private dick thrust his stubby revolver toward Lanford.
The gesture brought a sharp bark of challenge from Goodling.
Apologetically, Parrell stepped back and lowered his revolver. Taussig Kermal
was prompt to make the most of the detective's action.
"See that?" demanded the lawyer. "Parrell knows the truth. That's why he
made his slip. Use your brains, Goodling. Tell those fellows to put up their
guns; then I'll tell you something."
The lawyer was leaning with both palms on the table; his position rendered
him helpless. Goodling glared at Parrell and motioned for the dicks to put away
their guns. The detective, anxious to hold the prosecutor's favor, nodded to
his men. Revolvers went into pockets.
"You have asked me about Yager's death, Goodling," announced Kermal, in
his deep tone. "I swear that I had nothing to do with it. I ask you to hear my
defense; I can promise you it will be brief. I admit that Blissop was slain by
Croy, in the house on Dobson's Road. Blissop, however, tried to kill Daggart;
the latter's wound is proof of that fact."
"To which I can testify," put in Doctor Claig. "Kermal is right, Goodling."
"I consider you a murderer." Goodling spoke steadily as he faced Kermal.
The prosecutor was holding his .38 in readiness. "Nevertheless, I shall accept
the supposition that Blissop's death was justifiable. But Yager's death was
murder -"
"One moment," interposed Kermal. "Follow the story from the time of
Blissop's death. Shortly after that, Goodling, you and Lanford came to my
house. The two of you put up a fight. We overpowered you. Had I been a
murderer, I would have slain you then."
"You feared to kill us," retorted Goodling. "We were well known in
Sheffield."
"So was Yager," reminded Kermal, with a nod of his shaggy head. "Your
logic does not hold. But here is the main point, Goodling. You and Lanford had
seen Blissop's body; there was every reason why you could make trouble for us.
We had a chance to dispose of both of you by the simple expedient of coasting
your coupe into the swollen creek beside the broken bridge. Yet we spared your
lives."
KERMAL had delivered a strong argument; it was one that coincided with the
facts that The Shadow alone had considered, of all those who had investigated
this case. An exclamation of agreement came from Lanford.
"That's straight, Jay," argued the prosecutor's friend. "Kermal's no
murderer. If he was, he'd have gotten rid of us."
"Your own friend understands, Goodling," asserted Kermal. "Moreover, when
he encountered my servant Croy, a few nights ago, Croy made no effort to injure
him. Croy brought Lanford here a prisoner; that is true. After that, however, I
offered Lanford freedom. He preferred to stay here."
"Is that right, Fred?" questioned Goodling.
"Absolutely," returned Lanford.
"But Yager was murdered," asserted the prosecutor, swinging back to
Kermal. "And if you ordered his death, you -"
"I would have been a fool," interposed Kermal, with a convincing nod. "I
had an explanation for Blissop's death. I had proof that I meant you and
Lanford no ill. Lanford himself was here with us, ready to favor our cause. My
hands were clean."
"Then who -"
"Who murdered Yager? The facts should be obvious to anyone who has heard
me speak. Thugs murdered Yager; they fled afterward. But they acted at the
order of those who were seeking to defeat me in my protection of Myra Dolthan.
They were ordered to kill Yager because he had talked with Blissop."
"Talked with Blissop?"
"Yes. Because Blissop had turned traitor against me. He knew whom I
feared. He must have told Yager the facts. Had Yager talked, the real crooks
would have been exposed. One name would have been revealed in its true light -
the name of the man who seeks the life of Myra Dolthan - the name of the girl's
own uncle, Rufus Dolthan!"
GOODLING stood transfixed. Roy Parrell was staring straight at the
prosecutor, too tense to make a move while Goodling held that ready gun.
Taussig Kermal clenched a massive fist and drove it fiercely against the
surface of the desk.
"Rufus Dolthan!" he denounced. "But his crooked game is at its end. He
came here hoping that the law would find his niece, so he could see that she
was slain before she came of age. A dozen minutes more; his opportunity will be
ended.
"Fool that he is! Instead of coming here himself, he sent an underling,
Roy Parrell." Kermal turned and pointed squarely at the detective. "Roy
Parrell, head of a fake investigation agency, a poor tool in the hands of a
supercrook. Keep him covered, Goodling; he put his gun away too soon.
"Parrell is yellow. He won't call for help from those fake dicks of his.
He's afraid that you will shoot him if he does. Hold them where they stand,
Goodling. Call Croy and Daggart, Lanford. Bring Myra Dolthan here. It is almost
midnight."
Lanford started toward the door at the left. Croy had left it ajar. But
before he had taken four steps, Lanford halted. Like the others, Goodling
included, he whirled about to face the door at the right of the room.
A fiendish chuckle had issued from that half-opened barrier. Into the room
was stepping a gray-haired man, his face no longer one of dignity.
Rufus Dolthan, revolver in hand, was covering Jay Goodling. Behind the
leering fiend were others: Souder, Wurling and Hazzler; three servants as
venomous as their master, all with guns.
As counsel in his own defense, Taussig Kermal had won his argument with
the county prosecutor. But Jay Goodling could no longer act in Kermal's behalf.
Rufus Dolthan and his servants had stepped in to gain the control that Roy
Parrell and his aids had lost.
CHAPTER XIX
FACTS COME OUT
"TWELVE minutes more."
Rufus Dolthan delivered the words with an insidious sneer. His faked
nervousness was gone. Revealed as a man of crime, he was taking pride in his
role of supercrook. At his nod, Roy Parrell grinned. He and his pretended dicks
were ready to double the strength of Dolthan's forces.
"Twelve minutes," repeated Dolthan, "ample time in which to accomplish my
purpose here. In fact" - an evil chuckle escaped his curling lips - "there is
no need for haste. As matters now stand, we can wait until after midnight.
"You have paved your own destruction, Kermal. You were crafty in your
moves. You suspected that I murdered my brother Wade. You were right. I had him
poisoned; Souder aided me and Parrell removed the evidence.
"It was Parrell, too, who gathered facts concerning George Garling. When
Myra's stepbrother inherits her father's estate, he will not enjoy it long.
When Parrell, as my agent, interviews him, Garling will be glad to rid himself
of wealth. Some of his past indiscretions can be classed as crimes. Enough, if
known, to send him to prison for twenty years. He will pay for silence."
Dolthan paused to survey Kermal in contemptuous fashion. The little clock
was ticking on toward midnight; the fact did not seem to trouble the
supercrook. Dolthan had already said that he had no need for haste.
"You moved ahead of us, Kermal," sneered the gray-haired murderer. "Your
mistake, however, was in trusting those about you. Particularly Blissop. He
knew that you feared me. He saw an opportunity for wealth. He called me by long
distance, Saturday night. You uncovered his treachery; you traveled here. But
your own softness was your undoing.
"Had you finished Goodling and Lanford - as I would have done - you would
have been better off. I am forgetting though" - Dolthan's chuckle was filled
with cackled malice - "that you are honest, not a plotter like myself. You see,
Kermal, I did not intend to hurry to that house on Dobson's Road. I planned to
wait; to let you spend a few more days of false security.
"But when I read of the strange adventures of Jay Goodling and Fred
Lanford, I knew that Blissop had failed to keep his spying secret. I knew my
informant to be the dead man mentioned in their story. I knew then that you
must have sought some new hide-out; I knew also that technically you were a
fugitive from justice.
"I sent Parrell here to Sheffield. His purpose: to discover Myra's
whereabouts, to dispatch hidden killers to the spot where she might be. Their
task was to slay my niece; but prior to that, they had other duties. They came
in secretly on Monday evening. Some to be near the courthouse in case of an
emergency; others to visit the old house of which Blissop had told us, there to
find clues before the law could gain them."
TAUSSIG KERMAL, leaning heavily on the desk, was nodding as Rufus Dolthan
paused. These words were the lawyer's vindication. Jay Goodling realized it;
the prosecutor stared helplessly. He still held his gun; but he had been forced
to point the weapon to the floor when covered by Dolthan's revolver.
Roy Parrell was swaggering up beside Dolthan. The phony dick was trying to
cover his display of yellowness. His face was hard; his lips wore a leer as he
took credit for the next phase of Dolthan's criminal activity.
"When Yager blew in," jeered Parrell, "I heard him start to blab about
Blissop. I guessed that he knew too much. Blissop had posted him that we'd be
sending some killers out that way. He'd told us over the telephone that he had
things fixed.
"So I marked Yager for the spot. Pointed him out, right in front of your
eyes. I gave the finger wag like I'd been doing all along" - Parrell paused to
indicate the gesture that he had used in the prosecutor's office - "and when I
steadied it on Yager, there were fellows outside who knew what it meant.
"They finished Yager. Then they headed for Dobson's Road, to tip off the
boys who were going through the house. Who started the trouble there is
something that I don't know. It was a bad break for us, though."
"Hardly so, Parrell," croaked Dolthan, as his lieutenant paused. "The
murder of Yager was easily blamed on Kermal. It placed him definitely outside
the law. The discovery of the trunk merely enabled us to spur the authorities
to their search for Myra.
"Moreover, the elimination of those hirelings was no handicap. Your phony
detectives and my servants have proven themselves more capable than those cheap
skulkers. What we needed, Parrell, was a break. Finding Myra's diary in the
station wagon was a most timely clue. Particularly because it occurred when
Goodling's deputies were not available."
The reference to the diary brought a puzzled look to Kermal's face. Doctor
Claig also registered perplexity. Rufus Dolthan seemed to have gained a new
chain of thought now that he had mentioned his niece's name. He looked across
the room toward the door that stood ajar.
"It is time we thought of Myra," he remarked. "One fact is certain: she
has no way of leaving here. Your barred windows, Claig, are excellently suited
to our purpose. The girl is trapped; for that matter, Kermal, so are your two
servants.
"I said that haste was not imperative. I meant it. So long as no one
except myself and those with me see Myra alive after midnight, it will be
deemed that she died before she came of age. Her father's will is due to stand.
The wealth will come into the possession of George Garling. Only for a temporary
period."
Stepping to the desk, Dolthan snatched up the will that Kermal had
prepared. He crumpled it with his left hand and thrust the paper into his
pocket. All the while he kept Goodling covered.
Stepping toward the door that led to Myra's hallway, Dolthan paused; then
laughed as he eyed the revolver that Goodling was still holding.
"Keep your revolver, Goodling," ordered the master crook. "You will have
use for it. Parrell, take a look in Kermal's desk. See what weapons he has
available."
PARRELL stepped forward and opened the drawer, pushing Kermal away from
the desk. He found two guns. One was a .32 automatic; another was a revolver of
the same caliber, with inlaid handle bearing the letter K. Parrell exhibited
them.
"Excellent," decided Dolthan. "Replace the automatic, Parrell, and bring
me the revolver. Leave the drawer half open."
The phony detective complied. Dolthan juggled the initialed gun in his
left hand.
"Quite considerate of you, Kermal," he chortled, "to have a revolver that
will certainly be identified as your own. I shall keep this weapon and use it
to slay Myra. Her death will be attributed to you, Kermal.
"It will do for Lanford also; but he will come afterward. By the way,
Parrell, did Doctor Claig have a gun when you and Goodling captured him?"
The detective nodded and nudged his thumb toward Goodling's pocket.
"Produce the weapon," ordered Dolthan. "Return it to Claig."
Parrell complied. Dolthan motioned his men to new positions. He arranged
them so that Souder and the three false detectives were with Parrell, all
covering Kermal, Goodling and Claig.
The lawyer's hand was just above the desk drawer wherein Parrell had
replaced his automatic. The prosecutor was still holding his .38 downward. The
physician had his five-chambered revolver limp in his hand, where Parrell had
placed it.
"Wurling," said Dolthan to his chauffeur, "you and Hazzler keep Lanford
covered. Simply hold him until I return. If he tries to make trouble, overpower
him. Do not shoot him unless you are forced to do so.
"The stage is now set. We shall have the semblance of a battle. Start to
shoot down the victims, Parrell, when I give the word. Let them try to fight;
they have guns handy. I shall go find Myra and arrange her death. After that, I
shall attend to Lanford."
Dolthan chuckled gloatingly as he brandished the gun that he had taken
from Kermal. The inlaid handle glittered in the light. Dolthan exhibited his
own revolver.
"This will do for others," he remarked. "Croy and Daggart, if I encounter
them. You follow me, Parrell, after your first shots. The rest also; we will
scour the place and corner our missing enemies."
THE depth of Dolthan's scheme was apparent. Deputies would soon arrive
from town. They would hasten at the sound of distant gunfire. They would find
Kermal, Claig and Goodling dead, with guns in hand. They would meet Dolthan,
his servants and detectives triumphant.
The scene would show that a supposed crook - Kermal - had been slain,
along with his accomplice, Doctor Claig. For it would be obvious that the
physician had let Kermal use this house as hide-out.
Myra and Lanford also would be found slain by bullets from Kermal's gun.
Belief would have it that Kermal had murdered them prior to the arrival of
rescuers. Goodling would be found dead also. Witnesses would testify that the
prosecutor had fallen fighting against Kermal and Claig.
As for Croy and Daggart, they would be trapped and slain afterward.
Chances were that they would head for this room once the gunfire began. Dolthan
and his underlings would have no trouble with the missing pair.
The only flaw was Goodling. It must look as though he had fallen in fray
with the occupants of the house; not from shots delivered by the pretended
rescuers. Dolthan had not forgotten that point. He settled it as he surveyed
the scene.
"You take out Goodling," he said to Souder. "Don't give him a chance; we
don't want many of his bullets around here. After we finish that big fellow
Croy, we'll plant your gun on him, Souder. It will look like he settled
Goodling."
Souder's long face showed a grin, as the fellow nodded. Dolthan surveyed
the intended victims. He saw determined looks upon their faces. He shook his
head.
"You won't stand idle with those guns," jeered Dolthan. "When you hear me
give the word to fire, you'll make a fight for your lives. At least you'll try
to; but you won't get far."
THE crook's words bore significance. Kermal, Claig, Goodling - all had the
same thought: to drop their guns to the floor, so the evidence would show that
they had not fought. Yet it was impossible for them to do so. Human desire to
live would force them to a fight for their lives, even though the odds were
against them.
Already guns were trained upon the victims. Glowering fiends would let the
doomed men start upward with their weapons; then those covering crooks would
shoot down the victims, letting them do no more than fire scattered bullets
while they sank dying to the floor.
As Dolthan said, time was not essential to his scheme. He had forgotten
the little clock upon the desk. But from the floor below came the booming tones
of an old grandfather's clock, an heirloom that Doctor Claig had always prized.
It was intoning the hour of midnight.
Twelve strokes of doom; the change to a new day. The fateful hour that had
meant so much to Myra Dolthan. It marked the day that Taussig Kermal had hoped
would come with haste; that Rufus Dolthan had wished would wait until his evil
schemes were fully fashioned.
Kermal's cause was lost; Dolthan's crimes were ready for their
culmination. The fiend chuckled as he heard the clock's strokes. While the
tones still boomed, he raised his hand, waiting only until the final echo to
give the signal for slaughter. The time was suited to Rufus Dolthan's need for
massacre.
Then came a sudden pause. Dolthan's lips, about to speak, froze with their
twisted smile. From that door that stood ajar behind him came a sound that
stopped the crook's command. Into the room of doom crept the ghoulish quiver of
a mocking laugh, a sound that brought chilled rigidity to all who heard its
eerie tones.
Another had waited for this crucial moment, hard on the stroke of twelve.
An unseen visitant had listened to Rufus Dolthan's plans and was here to
prevent their delivery.
That creepy taunt from the blackness of the hallway was the laugh of The
Shadow!
CHAPTER XX
AFTER MIDNIGHT
RUFUS DOLTHAN wheeled. With their leader's turn, henchmen of crime swung
also toward the doorway. Already the partly opened barrier was swinging inward.
The Shadow's laugh rang loud.
Burning eyes from darkness. They were the only visible tokens of the
master avenger. His cloaked form shrouded in the gloom, The Shadow was a
creature of invisibility.
Then, with amazing suddenness, a sweeping form moved inward. Automatics
blazed an opening message into the ranks of crooks. The Shadow could afford no
quarter to murderers who held helpless men at bay.
Wildly, crooks scattered, firing quick shots toward the shape that whirled
inward from the door. As always, The Shadow had sprung the unexpected. He had
deserted his post of safety. Forgetful of his own safety, he wanted to draw all
shots in his direction.
The automatics blasted thunderously. That withering fire gave no choice.
The Shadow was the only target to every would-be murderer who saw him.
Dropping, crouching, diving, crooks stabbed wild shots toward the figure that
was wheeling half across the room.
There were others who joined in the fray. Men to whom The Shadow had given
opportunity; those upon whose aid he had counted to cover his bold stroke. Rufus
Dolthan had good cause to regret the plans he had made to camouflage this scene
of crime. Men whom he had branded helpless were far from being so.
Backed against the desk, Jay Goodling was jabbing shots at close range.
Making every bullet tell, he was crippling Dolthan's henchmen as those rogues
aimed for The Shadow.
Taussig Kermal had snatched his automatic from the desk drawer. With two
quick shots, the lawyer dropped one of Dolthan's aces, the long-faced Souder.
Fred Lanford had sprung to fight with Wurling and Hazzler. That was the
only reason why The Shadow had left Souder to someone else.
Wurling, desperate, had aimed to finish Lanford. The Shadow had fired two
consecutive bullets to drop Dolthan's murderous chauffeur.
It was Hazzler, now, who threatened. He had left Lanford to Wurling and
was aiming for The Shadow as the chauffeur fell. Fred Lanford, furious, made a
dive for Hazzler and drove the fellow's gun arm upward. Then the pair grappled.
Hazzler's well-aimed shot had been sent wide.
All the while, one man had devoted himself to a single task. Doctor Claig,
dropping back into a corner, had fired diagonally across the room, hoping to
drop one foeman, Rufus Dolthan.
The supercrook had dived for cover as Claig's first bullets whined past
his ears. Dolthan had chosen the refuge that The Shadow had scorned: that
blackened hallway that led to Myra's room.
Frantically, Claig had emptied his gun. His shots were too hasty; all five
of the bullets from his old-fashioned revolver had gone wide of their mark.
Claig was clicking his trigger before he realized that his opportunity was
gone. He looked about; he saw Kermal and Goodling standing with smoking guns.
All about were sprawled crooks.
Claig tried to shout; his voice failed him. Kermal and Goodling were
transfixed as they watched the finish of a desperate fray. Lanford and Hazzler
were locked like wrestlers. Hazzler was striving to twist his revolver muzzle
toward Lanford's head.
ACROSS the room, The Shadow stood like a blackened statue. He saw
Hazzler's hand come clear. Goodling sprang forward frantically, too late to be
of aid to his threatened friend. But before Hazzler could press the trigger of
his gun, The Shadow acted. One of his automatics boomed a timely shot.
The Shadow was swinging as he fired; spinning to an angle that offered
opportunity. His gun roared as he neared the door through which Dolthan had
sped.
A swift shot clipped Hazzler's forearm. With a wild cry the man clawed the
air, his revolver dropping from his grasp. Then Goodling was upon him; the
prosecutor hurled the fellow hard against the wall, while Lanford staggered
free.
It was then that Claig found his voice. Wildly, the physician appealed to
Kermal. Frantically, he pointed toward the door on the left, gesturing with his
emptied gun.
"Get Dolthan!" gasped Claig. "Stop him! He's gone to murder Myra!"
Before Kermal could turn about, a last antagonist came upward from the
floor. It was Roy Parrell. The yellow lieutenant had dropped at the first shots
from The Shadow's automatics.
Covered by a fallen body, Parrell had escaped injury. Lying there, he had
believed that his pals had triumphed. Then, when he started to arise, he saw
Kermal squarely in front of him.
Thinking he had but one man to finish, Parrell had sprung upon the lawyer.
With vicious snarl, the coward was aiming to kill; his finger on revolver
trigger. Doctor Claig, his own gun emptied, had no chance to save Kermal. He
thought that the lawyer was doomed.
The Shadow fired a final shot. One automatic emptied, this was the last
that the other gun contained. Straight from the front of the opened door, his
cloaked form black against the background of the hallway, The Shadow dealt this
stroke with absolute precision. As his automatic gave its message, Parrell's
murderous drive was ended.
Kermal, staring into the detective's gun muzzle, saw Parrell spin about in
air. The revolver clattered to the floor; mechanically, Kermal reached for it as
Parrell sprawled, rolled over writhing and lay still.
The Shadow had spun about, out into the hall. Instead of following it, he
drew back into a short alcove at the nearer end. He had given up pursuit of
Rufus Dolthan. The master murderer had already reached the doorway of Myra's
room.
There, dangling in the lock, Dolthan had found a key. He had turned it;
gun in hand, he was opening the door at the moment of The Shadow's return to
the hall.
Dull light revealed Dolthan's figure. The Shadow saw the crook bound
inward. He listened. An instant later, his ears caught a hoarse cry of
surprise; a sound that turned to the snarled tone of a cornered beast.
SURE that his henchmen would win their fray, Dolthan had headed through
the hall with murderous intent. Within the lighted room, he had expected to
find the niece whose life he sought. Instead, he had come upon two foemen whom
he had forgotten.
At one side of the room was Daggart, pale-faced but determined as he held
a leveled gun; at the other side, Croy, his huge face stonelike. Like Daggart,
Croy was ready with a revolver. Rufus Dolthan was between them.
The arch-crook's face showed ratlike in the light. Slowly, Dolthan moved
back a pace; then, taking advantage of the fact that his enemies were ready to
give quarter, the crook sprang forward, choosing Croy as his first foe.
With wild fury, Dolthan ducked past the big man's aiming arm to thrust his
gun straight for Croy's heart.
Daggart fired. Teeth gritting, the pale-faced secretary showed
determination as well as good aim. Croy had saved his life when Blissop had
sought it. Daggart's chance for repayment had arrived. His grit served him in
the pinch.
As Croy's revolver covered Dolthan, the gray-haired crook collapsed. He
sank to the floor; he lost his hold on his gun. Mortally wounded, he began to
cough out his evil life.
Footsteps pounded through the hallway. Taussig Kermal dashed into the
room, carrying Parrell's revolver. Behind the lawyer followed Goodling and
Lanford; after them, Doctor Claig. All stopped short as they joined Kermal.
Straight across the room yawned blackness. Shutters were opened; window
was unbarred. Myra Dolthan had gone. Croy and Daggart had remained here in her
stead.
A gleam of triumph showed on Croy's rugged features. Daggart was nodding
as he viewed the dying form of Rufus Dolthan. Daggart's left arm was still in
its sling; his right hand held the revolver with which he had delivered his
timely shot.
Taussig Kermal spoke his commendation as Dolthan's last cough ended. The
others crowded about Daggart. The babble of their praising tones could be heard
in the long hall. The Shadow stepped from his alcove.
Again, his weird laugh sounded. Quivering echoes returned their mockery
from the walls. Turning, The Shadow swept into the room where crooks lay
sprawled.
Hazzler, crippled by the wall, looked up and tried to snarl as his bleary
eyes saw the shape that moved swiftly toward the window.
Then, as the wounded minion's snarl failed him, The Shadow was gone.
Blackness only where he had merged with those heavy draperies beyond Kermal's
desk. Only the ticking of the desk clock sounded amid the hush that followed,
until, from beyond the house, came the weird tones of a fading laugh.
The Shadow, triumphant, had departed. He had dealt with men of crime. He
had made allowance for Rufus Dolthan's eagerness to kill, by preparing a trap
wherein two determined men had been ready for the supercrook.
Croy's strength or Daggart's courage; The Shadow had known that he could
rely on one or the other. To Daggart had come the opportunity to fire the shot
that spelled the end of Rufus Dolthan. To The Shadow had come the real triumph.
CHAPTER XXI
WORD TO THE VICTORS
"BUT Myra? What has become of her?"
Taussig Kermal put the question as he stood beside his desk. Doctor Claig
was tending Hazzler; the wounded man's testimony would be a record against
Rufus Dolthan's past. But Kermal knew that Hazzler could tell nothing. It was
to Croy and Daggart that he spoke.
"I don't know, sir," stated the secretary. "The mystery began when I went
to summon Miss Dolthan. I rapped at her door, sir. I heard her unlock it; the
door opened slowly."
"And then?"
"Something black enveloped me. I was powerless. I had no chance to cry
out. Someone switched out the light; I found myself upon the floor. Yet there
was no struggle; no sudden jolt. Just a momentary smothering that stifled me
for the time."
"What next?"
"I heard a voice - a whispered voice - warning me to be quiet and to make
no move. Metal pressed my neck. It was a gun muzzle. I had my own revolver,
sir; but I dared not reach for it. Then, after a long time - at least so it
seemed - I heard another rap upon the door."
"Was that when Croy arrived?"
"Yes. The gun was pressing me no longer; but the voice repeated a warning.
It was uncanny, that voice. I could not bring myself to disobey it. Perhaps I
was somewhat of a coward, Mr. Kermal -"
"You have proven your bravery, Daggart. Proceed."
"The door opened suddenly. There was a struggle in the darkness. A figure
sprawled beside me, so suddenly that it seemed incredible. The door must have
closed; for I heard the voice speaking a new warning as it had to me. I knew
that Croy must be the man beside me."
"Enough for the moment, Daggart," said Kermal. "What happened to you,
Croy?"
"Just what Daggart said," grumbled the big man. "It was the same with me,
Mr. Kermal. I was smothered, I made a grab and found myself plopped on the
floor. There was the voice, too. That gun muzzle Daggart talked about.
"Like a ghost, Mr. Kermal. It wasn't human, anyway. Look" - Croy stretched
out his huge arms and doubled his big fists - "who's going to roll me over like
I was nothing. Anybody human? No, sir."
Kermal paused, speculating. He was inclined to agree. He remembered The
Shadow's laugh. He had a fleeting recollection of a sweeping figure in black.
It was all uncanny; bullets had been real, yet even they had come in a deluge
that seemed incredible.
"The whisper came again, Mr. Kermal," explained Daggart. "It was friendly
- yet fearful. It told us to wait; that we must be ready to fight for you."
"The voice said that?" queried Kermal. "When?"
"Shortly after Croy arrived. There was something weirdly persuasive in the
tone. There, in pitch darkness, it was ghostly. There was nothing to do but
obey."
"What was your impression, Croy?" questioned Kermal.
"What Daggart has said, Mr. Kermal," nodded the big man. "I can't tell it
the way he does; but it wasn't human, that voice wasn't. You had to do what it
said."
KERMAL looked toward Goodling and Lanford who were listening with
interest. The lawyer shook his head, wondering.
"Do you realize what this means?" questioned Kermal. "This weird creature
- whoever, whatever he was - had divined my purposes. He knew that I was right;
that Rufus Dolthan was wrong."
"We waited in the room, sir," resumed Daggart. "The voice told us to
remain where we were; to put on the light when we heard four raps against the
door. Then to wait until someone came; to be ready."
"But to stay there," added Croy, "no matter what happened. Remember that,
Daggart?"
The secretary nodded.
"A while went by," said Croy to Kermal. "Then came the four raps. They
were like the voice. You'd have thought a ghost had tapped the door. We turned
on the light. The room was empty."
"You had heard no one go out?" demanded Kermal.
"Absolutely not, sir," responded Daggart. "Croy tried the door. It must
have been locked on the other side."
"The key was out of the inside," put in Croy.
"I opened the shutters," resumed Daggart. "The bars were no longer there.
Before I could investigate further, we heard the shooting begin. Croy wanted to
start out. I stopped him."
"Why?" asked Kermal.
"Because of what the voice had said," replied Daggart. "I reminded Croy;
he agreed when I mentioned the voice. We waited there in the room, with our
guns ready."
"There was some sort of sound we heard," completed Croy. "Like a laugh -
before the shots. The same laugh that we heard when you and the others had come
to join us."
"Did it remind you of the voice?" demanded Kermal.
Croy nodded.
"That tells the story, sir," completed Daggart. "We heard nothing more
until someone unlocked the door. The voice had said some enemy was coming. We
were ready; we knew Rufus Dolthan from your description of him."
"You finished him, Daggart," commended Kermal. "You deserve great credit."
"Frankly, sir," declared Daggart, "it - it was that voice that gave me the
nerve I needed. Somehow, I - well, if I hadn't dropped Rufus Dolthan, I'd have
had the voice to settle with. That was what was in my mind, sir, from the
moment that I saw the villain."
Kermal's face was sober as he clapped his secretary on the right shoulder.
The lawyer realized that some strange influence had predominated this house
tonight.
He was recalling facts that he could not explain; other facts than these
that Daggart and Croy had related. Kermal began to speak again concerning Myra,
when Goodling held up his hand for silence.
From outside came the throb of motors. Goodling sprang to the window and
drew aside the heavy curtains. Half a dozen cars were rolling into the
driveway. Goodling saw figures alighting; men dashing toward the porch. The
summoned deputies had arrived.
GOODLING hurried out into the hallway on the right. He descended the
stairs as he heard pounding on the door. He opened the barrier to admit a surge
of deputies, Carter in the lead.
Goodling detailed briefly what had happened as he led the way upstairs.
Carter and the others stared at sight of the crooks who lay in the living room.
Then the deputy remembered a message. He drew Goodling aside and spoke in
confidential tone. The prosecutor's eyes opened.
"Those reporter fellows," informed Carter. "Burke and Vincent. They're in
the lobby down at the hotel. Spoke to me when we pulled into town. Said to get
down there as soon as possible, with everybody concerned."
Goodling nodded. Leaving Carter in charge, he ordered the others to join
him in a quick trip to town. Lanford, Kermal and Croy accompanied the
prosecutor in his car, while Daggart came along with Doctor Claig, in the
physician's coupe. The two cars made the trip to Sheffield in a dozen minutes.
Goodling was the first to reach the hotel lobby. There he found Clyde and Harry
waiting.
"Carter says you have news for us," stated Goodling, anxiously. "What is
it? Something important?"
"I'll say it is," replied Clyde. "Hurry up to Rufus Dolthan's living room.
There's someone up there."
"Myra Dolthan?"
Clyde nodded.
CHAPTER XXII
THE SHADOW DEPARTS
THEY found Myra Dolthan in the big room of her dead uncle's suite. Garbed
in her traveling attire, the girl was reading a book when the arrivals entered.
Myra had heard nothing about the fray at Doctor Claig's. She looked up in
surprise when she saw the anxious faces.
Spying Taussig Kermal, Myra arose with a smile. She extended her hand to
the lawyer. Kermal received the girl's clasp. Relief showed on his heavy
features. He wondered for a moment at the enthusiasm of the girl's greeting;
then Myra explained.
"I did not fully trust you, Mr. Kermal," said the girl. "I am sorry. I was
wrong. You are my truest friend. That is, unless -"
She paused soberly; then added:
"Unless I place one friend before you. One whose face I have never seen;
one whose voice is weird and mysterious, whose words carry absolute conviction.
One who must be believed and cannot be disobeyed."
"The voice!" exclaimed Daggart, looking toward Croy. "The voice we heard
tonight!"
"Tell us everything, Myra," urged Kermal. "We must learn all that we can
about this amazing being who rescued us."
"Who rescued you as well as me?" queried Myra, in surprise.
"Yes," replied Kermal. "I shall explain that later. Go on, Myra."
"Two nights ago," stated the girl, "after you had let Mr. Lanford question
me, I felt grave concern. I wondered about everything, Mr. Kermal. Particularly
about your accusations of my uncle."
Doctor Claig nodded wisely.
"Later," continued Myra, "there was a knock at my door. I thought it was
Daggart. Instead, it was a tall stranger in black. His eyes were like living
fire; his voice an uncanny whisper."
Daggart and Croy looked at each other and nodded their corroboration of
the voice.
"This visitor," resumed Myra, "seemed more than human. He was a most
amazing being; his cloak, his hat, made him seem a solid shadow come to life.
Yet his tones were calming. He was as gentle as he was fearful.
"He promised me protection. I gave him the diary that I had kept. When he
left, he vanished so amazingly that I thought almost that he had been unreal.
But later, he cut the bars outside of my window. After that, I saw a glimmering
light from the second floor of the garage. His promised signal. From then on, I
had no fear."
THERE was a calmness to the girl's story. Every word had the ring of fact.
None who listened doubted. Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent were agents of The
Shadow; the others had heard his laugh upon this very night.
"At about eleven o'clock tonight," declared Myra, "or a little later,
perhaps, I heard four taps upon the shutters of my window. That was his signal.
Strange taps - almost as though they were in the room."
Again Daggart and Croy were impressed with recollections. They, like Myra,
recalled The Shadow's signal.
"I opened the shutters," declared the girl. "I saw those glowing, living
eyes in blackness. That whispered voice spoke again. The figure moved downward;
I followed, by a ladder that was resting against the wall.
"It was black about the house. The ladder was white. It seemed to move
beside me as the voice gave instructions. Stretched level with the ground, that
ladder; carried by a figure that I could not see beside me.
"We passed the garage; there my conductor placed the ladder against the
wall. The voice still spoke, moving onward, commanding me to follow. It was
like a dream, my eyes unseeing. A gloved hand held my arm, guiding me; the
whispered tones gave truthful utterance.
"My invisible friend was telling me of danger. My uncle was coming to
Doctor Claig's. Mr. Kermal had been right when he had told me of my uncle's
plotting. I was to meet others who would take me to safety when I told them who
I was. Then suddenly, I realized that I was walking alone.
"For the moment, I was terrified; I stumbled as I continued along the
slope. A flashlight appeared in front of me; I was at the edge of a road. Two
men were there; they questioned me. They were Mr. Burke and Mr. Vincent. They
introduced themselves when I told them who I was. They brought me here in their
car."
"Where did you find Miss Dolthan?" questioned Goodling, turning to Clyde
and Harry.
"On the back road," replied Clyde. "We drove up there to watch the house
while you went in with Parrell. While we were waiting around, we heard someone
coming our way. It turned out to be Miss Dolthan. We knew town was the safest
place for her."
"You were right," agreed Goodling, grimly. "We've a lot to thank you for,
Burke. You too, Vincent."
"Rufus Dolthan turned phony?" questioned Clyde. "These chaps" - he
indicated Kermal, Croy and Daggart - "look a lot like the ones you were looking
for."
"They're the ones," stated Goodling. "Lanford told us they were all right;
but we didn't believe him until Parrell started to act up and Dolthan broke in
on the meeting."
CLYDE was looking at Lanford, who pointed toward Croy. Clyde stared at the
big man; he saw Croy grin. Then Clyde smiled as he nodded. He was indicating
that he had at last recognized the man with whom he had battled while on the
running board of the old sedan.
"Rufus Dolthan is dead," declared Goodling, solemnly. "Roy Parrell also.
They admitted their crimes, believing that we were helpless. Then a rescuer
arrived; as nearly as I can judge, he must have been the same one who aided
Miss Dolthan to safety."
"He came in by the window," put in Croy, with a nod. "That is it. By the
window."
"After you were gone, Miss Dolthan," added Daggart, to Myra, "he held Croy
and myself there, so that we would be ready when your uncle came to kill you."
The girl uttered a startled cry. Then, realizing that all danger was past,
she reached to the table beside her and picked up a little book that lay there.
"My diary," she stated. "I cannot imagine how it came here."
"Parrell found it in the station wagon," explained Clyde, to Kermal and
Claig. "While he was looking for his pipe. I was with him. That's how he
guessed where you were."
Bit by bit, the story was being pieced. More comments followed; yet, as
the talk continued, the part by The Shadow increased in its mysterious
proportions. One suggestion followed another; it was Jay Goodling, finally, who
summed the case.
"Whoever he was," declared the prosecutor, solemnly, as he referred to The
Shadow, "he must have learned everything through sheer deduction. Not only a
superfighter, he is a supermind. A superbeing.
"It was he who scattered those crooks at the house on Dobson's Road and
brought us to the first goal in our hunt. He learned that Kermal was at your
house, Claig. He went there and prepared to save Myra from danger that he
foresaw.
"He must have analyzed the case to perfection; known that you were on the
level, Kermal; that Dolthan was crooked. He must have analyzed it from Yager's
murder, the way you outlined it tonight.
"He was for you, Kermal. He wanted a show-down. He wanted to make Dolthan
reveal himself as the villain. No one but this mysterious stranger could have
placed that diary in the station wagon. But how he knew so many other things is
what amazes me.
"Parrell's pipe in my office. Parrell found it in the station wagon
instead. Burke and Vincent on that rear road; with their lights out. Yet this
super-being found that out while he was rescuing Myra Dolthan and sent the girl
to safety.
"He handled Daggart and Croy; then pitched in to start the fight against
them. He had Rufus Dolthan figured to the dot. He knew that Dolthan would set
out to kill Myra; and then he had Daggart and Croy waiting. The very men with
whom he had battled less than a quarter of an hour before."
OTHERS nodded their heads in understanding. Each terse detail was new
proof of The Shadow's might. Men who had fought for right felt like mere
pygmies as they considered the craft, the strategy, the prowess of The Shadow.
"Well, Myra," announced Kermal, after Goodling had concluded.
"Congratulations are in order. You are twenty-one; your father's estate is
yours. Here is the will that I made out" - he produced the crumpled paper; he
had taken it from Rufus Dolthan's pocket - "and I still advise you to sign it.
"There's no one now to influence your stepbrother should he be named as
your heir; but I've seen enough of crooks to know we shouldn't trust one just
because he hasn't gone to prison. As for witnesses" - Kermal chuckled as he
looked about the group - "we have plenty of them now."
Kermal spread the crumpled will upon the table. Myra Dolthan took a pen
that Fred Lanford brought from a desk. She dipped the pen in ink, wrote her
signature below the will and passed the document to Taussig Kermal.
It was then that all were stilled by a weird sound that reached them.
Though the timing of that distant call might have been mere coincidence, it
impressed every listener with the startling thought that an unseen being had
known all that passed within this room.
From somewhere outside the hotel, floating through silent night that
blanketed the town of Sheffield came the burst of eerie mirth, that faded into
shivering echoes, wafted by a dying breeze. As if he claimed the privilege of
being the first witness to the will, The Shadow's tones had come from the
invisible spaces that formed his habitat.
Justice had triumphed. Men of right had conquered insidious crime. All
through the strength of The Shadow, that master being whose token of departure
remained, unforgotten, in the minds of those who had heard.
THE END