An exclamation of alarm came from Harry’s lips as his flashlight picked out the huddled object in the road. There, Harry saw the folds of a heavy, dark overcoat. Rumpled crazily, the garment bulged high; as Harry approached, he saw two shoes projecting from one side of the coat.
All was silent here in the night. After a moment’s pause, Harry Vincent stooped. He hesitated, almost sensing that eyes were watching him from somewhere. Then, shaking off the nervous impression, Harry clutched the overcoat and swept it free from the form beneath. Steadily, stolidly, Harry stared.
Lying in full view, huddled with face upward, was the body of a man. Rigidly turned toward Harry, with eyes bulging in unseeing stare, was the ashen countenance of an elderly man. Gray hair, rumpled above the thin, dried countenance, was proof that the man’s age was past sixty.
But this was not all that startled Harry Vincent. The man’s silence, his position — these were but preliminary proofs of foul play. The flashlight showed other evidence of more horrifying nature.
Coat and vest were open as testimony of a bitter struggle. A white shirt showed clearly in the light. The center of that shirt was crimson; it bore the singing marks of flame around a spot that indicated the victim’s heart.
This elderly man had been attacked in the darkness. His struggles against a fiendish foe had been to no avail. However well he might have protected himself, the victim had succumbed to his enemy’s last resort.
The man in the road had been shot through the heart. His killer had flung the overcoat upon his form and had taken flight from the scene of crime. Harry Vincent, speeding through the night, had stopped to uncover the body of a murdered man!
CHAPTER II
THE LONE HOUSE
HARRY VINCENT was grim when he returned to his coupe. He had taken a short road to save time. He realized now that it would be impossible for him to reach New York before dawn. As an agent of The Shadow, Harry had been trained to the important duty of following any trail of crime that his path might cross.
The first step was to report this murder. Miles between two traveled highways, Harry was in a spot that seemed desolate. Yet his keenness told him that a town could not be far away. The proof of this conjecture lay in the railroad crossing that he had passed less than two miles back.
There must be towns along the line of the Union Valley and Harry was sure that he could find one without taking to the ties. He recalled a road that had cut in from the right. As he remembered it, that dirt highway had followed the direction of the railroad. Acting upon this recollection, Harry swung the coupe about.
He found his road after a mile of driving. It proved to be rough and stony. Moreover, as Harry slackened his speed to twenty miles an hour, he noted that this road was swinging along the base of the hillside. It was evidently an old lower road that had been superseded by the one along the slope.
One mile back along the upper road; one curving mile along the lower. Harry realized that a person cutting across fields and through wooded patches could reduce the trip to half a mile. This was when he began to wonder if he had followed the best course. As the question perplexed him, he saw a house ahead.
It was a good-sized building, on the side of the road toward the hill. Harry surmised that its owner must be a man of means. Lights glimmered dully from windows on the first floor and the second. Another lighted window on the third story looked like an indication of servants in the place.
Harry found a driveway and entered. He swung his car up to the front door. He alighted and found a bell with his flashlight. It was an old-fashioned device, with a knob projecting from the center of the door. When Harry twisted the knob, the clangor of the bell was followed by echoes that seemed to come from the recesses of the building.
Harry waited half a minute. Then he rang again. Just as he was about to ring the bell for the third time, he caught the sound of footsteps from the stairs. A heavy, middle-aged woman appeared in the dim hall. She was attired in an old dressing gown, which she held bundled with one hand. Harry saw her by peering through tiny panes of glass beside the door; when the woman arrived, she stared back just as Harry stepped away from the window.
A LIGHT flashed on from a little projecting roof above Harry’s head. Harry stepped into view as the woman again peered from the window. Seeing his friendly face, the woman unbolted the door and opened it.
“You want to see Mr. Breck, yah?” the woman questioned.
“Yes,” responded Harry. “I should like to see him at once.”
“I think he is gone out,” informed the woman, making ready to close the door.
“Wait a moment.” Harry stopped the closing door. “I have come here to report a — an accident.”
“You mean someone hurt?”
“Yes. Up on the road along the hill. It is important that I bring aid. Do you have a telephone here?”
“Yah.”
The woman stepped aside to let Harry enter. Half friendly, half suspicious, she conducted the young man through a well-furnished hall into a living room. This was a comfortable apartment, well-stocked with books. The woman pointed to the telephone, which rested on a wallbox equipped with a bell handle.
Harry lifted the receiver and whirled the handle. He was forced to repeat the operation before he received a response in the voice of a lazy rural operator.
“I am speaking from the home of Mr. Breck,” stated Harry. “I want to talk to the police — or the authorities — at once. It is important.”
“I’ll ring the sheriff for you,” came the operator’s reply.
Harry edged a glance toward the heavy woman. She was standing in the center of the room, Listening intently to all he said. He wondered what her reaction would be when she learned that a murder, not an accident, was the subject upon which he had called the sheriff.
A gruff voice sounded its “hello” across the wire. Harry inquired if he were speaking to the sheriff. He received an affirmative response. Harry announced that he was speaking from the home of Mr. Breck; then he plunged into his statement.
“My name is Vincent,” explained Harry. “Driving through to New York along the road on the hill. Found a body in the road! Looks like a murder, sheriff.”
“What’s that? Murder?” The questions were sharp ones. “You’re at Breck’s you say? Wait for me. I’ll be there with my men.”
“Very well, sir.” Harry eyed the woman as he spoke. “I shall be ready to lead you to the place.”
“Hold on,” came the sheriff’s voice. “Do you have a description of the man?”
“I can give it to you when you reach here.”
“I want it now.”
“All right.” Harry felt annoyed by the sheriff’s gruff-voiced delay. “The man was about sixty years of age. Medium height, wiry build. He had gray hair and a thin sort of face, while his eyes — I saw them bulging — were gray and—”
Harry had forgotten the woman standing in the room. As he reached the final point of his telephoned description, a shrill cry came from her lips. Looking up, Harry saw her clutch her hands to her heart and waver toward the floor.
“Trouble here, sheriff!” blurted Harry, into the mouthpiece. “Hurry out!”
HE flung the receiver on the hook and leaped to aid the woman before she slumped. At the same instant, another figure came dashing in from the door of the room. As Harry caught the woman, he found himself facing a long-faced, solemn fellow who bore the look of a servant. Together, they aided the woman to a couch, where she sank against the cushions and began to moan.
“Who are you, sir?” demanded the long-faced man. “What is the trouble? What has happened?”