“Why look around, Jake?” inquired Thuler. “You won’t even find pieces of that guy.”
“Chief’s orders. He might have had something with him that would serve as identification. Come on — spread out and look.”
FLASHLIGHTS glimmered on scarred tree trunks below the clearing. The explosion had crashed some dead trees; pieces of the cabin had ripped the bark from others. But traces of the murdered man were vanished.
When the four prowlers joined at the path below, their only souvenirs were fragments of cloth, a strip of leather that might have come from a wallet, and a twisted chunk of thin metal that Jake identified as a portion of the victim’s flashlight.
“Down the path,” ordered Jake. “He may have left a car down on the road. We’ll take a look for it.”
The murderers made swift progress with their flashlights showing the way. Jake’s gleam caught a patch of birch trees. Past the white trunks, the glimmer showed Harry Vincent’s flivver parked at the side of the old road.
Jake made an inspection of the car. It was empty; the key was gone from the ignition lock. His examination ended, the leader turned to the others.
“All right,” he ordered gruffly, “back to the path. We’re heading up the hill. Across past Table Rock.”
“You’re leaving the buggy here?” questioned Thuler, his harsh tone puzzled. “So they’ll know the guy was in the cabin?”
“So they won’t know anything,” snorted Jake. “Listen, Thuler — you did your job, getting here in plenty of time to plant the fuse. The rest of the orders are mine. You know that.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Thuler. “I’m not objecting, Jake. I was just wondering.”
“All right, then. Look at it this way. The chief knows how to figure it. There’s going to be a lot of speculation about who blasted that shack and why. That’s plain, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But this car the guy left here—”
“Will give them more to guess about. It will look like the guy might have come here to blow the shack himself. Everybody will recognize the flivver as the one Cassidy had at his garage.”
“Which means they will inquire at Cassidy’s—”
“And learn nothing.”
“You’re right, Jake. Cassidy is not likely to know anything about the fellow’s business.”
Jake and Thuler had passed the turn in the path; they were blinking their flashlights while Delland and Jengley followed. They were skirting the remains of the cabin, going around the clearing to gain the obscure path to Table Rock.
Blinks faded; hushed darkness reigned supreme. Shrouding trees had gained the stillness of a tomb, hiding the fragments of the blasted shack, bending above the deserted car that Harry Vincent had left on the road below.
Fiendish killers had come across the slope to deliver spectacular death. Evidence of their victim gone, they were returning to their habitat. Scornful, sure that their crime would not be traced, this band of murderers had eliminated the first man who had come to pry into their schemes of evil.
CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND AGENT
AT six o’clock the next afternoon, another passenger alighted from the outbound local and looked curiously about the platform of the Paulington station. This arrival was Cliff Marsland.
Like Harry Vincent on the day before, Cliff was carrying a bag and presented a businesslike appearance.
But his actions were more definite than Harry’s had been. Cliff was making no effort to cover his arrival.
One reason was because the day was cloudless and there was no darkening gloom obscuring the station platform. The other reason was the fact that Cliff had a definite objective. He was going openly to Mountview Lodge.
Across the street, beside the old hotel, Cliff saw the projecting front of an old motor bus. He noticed a driver coming from the hotel. Picking up his bag, he went to make inquiry.
As he left the station, Cliff had a feeling that someone was watching him. He shot a glance back over his shoulder; the only person that he saw was a man who stepped from view beyond the station building.
Glimpsing no more than the man’s back, Cliff paused to see if the fellow would reappear. After a few seconds of vain waiting, Cliff decided that it would be poor policy to stand gawking from the center of the street. Turning, he continued on to the parked bus.
“I’m going to a place called Mountview,” informed Cliff, speaking to the driver. “How do I get there?”
“Hop in,” was the reply. “We go past there. It’s a half mile walk you’ll have, unless somebody is going to meet you where the road turns off to the lodge.”
Cliff climbed aboard. The bus started, and rolled out of Paulington.
Cliff studied the terrain from the window. As they neared the fork, he noted a ledge high up on the darkening hillside. His view was but momentary; apparently Table Rock could be seen from only a few spots.
Cliff’s information about the terrain was confined to a few important mental notes. Mountview Lodge, Table Rock, the cabin on the western slope — these facts were all that he required. His job was to stick close to the lodge; to visit the cabin only if unusual opportunity offered.
Maps would have been a dangerous thing for him to carry. Cliff was traveling into the enemy’s camp. It was well for him to come openly, with nothing to cover. Cliff thought of that fact as he fingered the false Blue Pearl, secure in the pocket of his vest.
Two nights ago, Cliff had openly committed crime, abetted by The Shadow. That crime, however, was one that had been faked in behalf of justice. The Shadow had learned of a crook called The Condor. To reach that foe, The Shadow had required Michael Walpin’s collection of pearls, particularly the Blue Pearl.
Yet The Shadow had not chosen to risk these prizes after gaining them. That was why he had purchased imitations, with a replica of the Blue Pearl. Cliff was carrying false treasures; even if they should be lost, Walpin would not suffer. The Shadow held the collector’s pearls secure.
The robbery at Walpin’s had created a sensation, thanks to The Shadow’s crafty plan of bringing in Clyde Burke. The Classic reporter had done much to place the episode in the public eye. That was a factor that would smooth Cliff’s path. Cliff was chuckling over it as the bus swayed along the paved road that continued right from the fork.
Then came a snatch of conversation that brought Cliff to attention. A local passenger was perched beside the bus driver. The two were shouting their discussion above the roar and rumble of the obsolete conveyance.
“IT mighta been some grudge,” the passenger was asserting. “But I can’t understand it nohow. Who’d want to get rid of that old cabin? It wasn’t harming nobody. Empty, warn’t it?”
The driver’s reply was drowned.
“Yeah,” resumed the passenger, “it was a city chap bought that car off’n Jerry Cassidy. But Jerry hasn’t been able to tell nobody what he looks like.”
Another statement from the driver. Cliff could not catch it; but he heard the passenger’s final comment.
“Well, Howie Brock’s looking into it,” the fellow stated, “and he’s a right smart sheriff, Howie is. Best we’ve had in this county in a long spell.”
The bus had skirted the hill. The passenger settled back in his seat. But Cliff had heard enough to trouble him. He knew that something had happened in the cabin on the slope.
Early dusk was present, for the sunset was obscured now that the bus had reached the east side of the hill. Cliff stared from the window; the gloom of passing trees formed a blackening mass. Then the bus swung to the right and came to a stop; Cliff saw a winding road that went off to the left. This was the stopping place for Mountview Lodge.