“A hide-out,” observed Cardona.
“Probably,” agreed Tharbel, “and here is its mate.”
Letting the panel drop shut, he led Cardona farther along the corridor, past a second panel to a third. He opened this one. His light showed another long room identical with the first.
“Two secret rooms,” remarked Cardona.
“Yes,” said Tharbel, “with a wall between.”
“Do they connect?”
“No. We have examined each one thoroughly. The intervening wall is solid. It is very thick — close to six-feet. It is probably the center section of the house — a sort of backbone on which the building depends.”
“These rooms would account for Moxton’s get-away.”
“For a temporary hiding place, at least. Probably Neswick was to be thrust into one of these. Mox — or Moxton — whichever you choose to call him — may have been waiting to kill Neswick. Shots in one of these muffled rooms would not have been heard outside.” Junius Tharbel let the panel fall. He and Cardona went downstairs. The county detective remarked that the entire house had been ransacked. A third floor attic had revealed nothing. The cellar, outside of a few oddly shaped compartments, had shown no signs of hiding places.
A COOLNESS had arisen between Cardona and Tharbel. Routine completed, each began to remember remarks which the other had made. The two went out to Tharbel’s car, and rode back to the office building near the county jail.
Reporters were awaiting them. Joe Cardona was greeted by Clyde Burke. This was the making of a story; the arrival of the ace detective from Manhattan. The reporters — Burke in particular — wanted to know the reason. Joe Cardona referred them to Tharbel.
It was obvious that Tharbel gave the news men what he chose. Cardona noted that they gathered around the desk with a respectful attitude. The hatchet-faced county detective thought a while before he made his statement.
“Detective Cardona,” he stated, “has come here because Joel Neswick testified that there is a connection between Jarvis Moxton and Schuyler Harlew, whose death Detective Cardona is investigating in New York.”
Questions came from two reporters. Tharbel waved his arms to show that his statement had been made. He pulled a fresh piece of chewing gum from his pocket and picked the wrapper from it.
“Come along, gang,” suggested Clyde Burke. “I told you to keep quiet and let Tharbel talk. You didn’t; that’s all you’ll get.”
As the reporters thumped down the steps, Tharbel made a sagacious comment to Cardona.
“Never let reporters ask questions,” was his advice. “I give them statements; nothing more. Most of the questions that reporters put are leads that they twist around to suit themselves. Let them jump around with their crack-brained theories and build up the stories that their newspapers want. It’s a help more than a hindrance, as I see it.
“They don’t try much funny stuff with me, though. If they do, I let them down later on, when the case begins to clear. That’s my rule: no questions answered. Statements, when I care to make them. It makes them behave, so they will get their statements.”
“You didn’t tell them much just now.”
“I was going to tell them more. They spoiled it. That fellow Burke used his head. He cleared the crowd out when he knew I was through talking. He knows when my statement is ended. A new stick of chewing gum; that’s all.”
MINUTES of silence passed. Cardona felt mingled resentment and admiration. He was forced to admit that this hatchet-faced county detective was a capable individual; at the same time, he did not like the man’s self-satisfaction.
Joe decided that Tharbel made it a practice to tell what he thought necessary, and keep the rest to himself.
That was not a bad idea. Cardona planned to follow the system himself. He felt sure that he had already learned one point which Tharbel did not know; namely, that the mysterious phantom known as The Shadow had battled the minions of Mox.
Whenever The Shadow appeared as an avenger of crime, remarkable consequences followed. Cardona knew that such had occurred before; he was positive that something of the sort was in the offing at present.
This case was the outgrowth of a dead man’s message to The Shadow. Somehow, The Shadow might have learned the contents of the note. The Shadow, certainly, had reached Mox, the master of Schuyler Harlew, before any others had discovered the murderous old man.
Joe Cardona regarded The Shadow as any entity. He had many proofs of the power of the mysterious avenger. The Shadow’s ways were The Shadow’s own. When The Shadow took the trail to uncover crime, those who followed would invariably gain through The Shadow’s findings. So Cardona resolved to say nothing of his hunch.
“I should like to talk to Neswick,” said Cardona, to Tharbel.
“You’ll find him over at the Darport Inn,” responded the county detective. “He’s staying there as a guest; one of my men is with him. Start over if you want. I’ll call Scudder — my assistant — and tell him that it’s all right for you to talk with Neswick.”
Cardona sauntered from the office. He reached the inn and inquired for Neswick. He was sent up to a large, comfortable room, where he found the inventor sprawled in a lounging chair. Scudder, the assistant detective, was with him.
Cardona introduced himself. Scudder had received the call from Tharbel. Neswick shook hands with the New York detective.
At Cardona’s request, he repeated the story which Cardona had learned from Tharbel. Joe came down to details which interested him specifically. He asked Neswick just what he knew about Schuyler Harlew.
“THE man came to see me at my hotel,” declared Neswick. “I liked Harlew. He seemed sincere when he told me that he had a purchaser for the television plans which I had developed. Harlew stated simply that he traveled for Jarvis Moxton; that the old man was interested in the purchase of inventions.
“One day, Harlew came and arranged for me to visit Moxton. That was about two weeks ago. At that time, Harlew gave me a note — simply a scrawled introduction signed ‘Mox.’ I was to give it to the servant when I arrived at Moxton’s home.
“I was busy with my plans after that. I failed to read the newspapers that told of Harlew’s death. I came to Darport; you know the rest. I am very sorry, indeed, that I can not give you any worthwhile information that pertains to Schuyler Harlew.”
Cardona nodded. He found himself agreeing with Junius Tharbel that Joel Neswick was a man who had told a straightforward story.
It was late in the afternoon when Cardona left the witness and went down to the hotel lobby. There he met Clyde Burke.
“How about dinner?” questioned the reporter.
“All right,” agreed Cardona. “But I’m saying nothing, Burke. This is Junius Tharbel’s precinct.”
As reporter and detective dined, Burke brought up the subject of Tharbel. Like Cardona, the reporter regarded the county detective with antagonism as well as approval. He delved into Tharbel’s odd methods.
“The hunting season is on,” said Burke, with a smile.
“Tharbel’s a hunter, isn’t he?” queried Cardona.
“Best shot in the county,” laughed Burke. “If he decides to go out after game, he’ll let this case slide along. You wait and see.”
“Great stunt for a county detective,” snorted Cardona.
“They think a lot of Tharbel out here,” reminded Burke. “He gets results, Joe. That’s what counts.”
“I guess so. Well, I’ll drop over and say good-by to his nibs. I’m going back to New York.”
“Tharbel will be at his home, Joe. I’ll take you around there in my car.”