“Running all right, is it?” questioned the friend.
“Seems so,” replied Cassidy. “I had a duplicate ignition key, so I started the motor and ran the car over there in the corner. But I haven’t checked on anything else. Sheriff said keep it here; that’s what I’m doing.”
“Couldn’t get rid of the old load of iron, even after you’d sold it, eh, Jerry?”
“That car’s no junk. It’s plenty out of date, but it runs. The rubber is old, but good for a few thousand miles, maybe. I told the fellow that when he bought it. What I didn’t tell him was that he was getting a new battery. A new jack, too; one I took right out of stock and put in back with the tools.
“You always give a guy a good return for his money, Jerry.”
Cassidy finished up and turned out the light. He and his friend started from the garage. In the darkness, Cassidy made comment:
“You know,” he said, “that fellow who bought the flivver pulled out of here a little after seven. He’d have just about had time to drive up to the old road and follow the path to the cabin and get there ahead of the explosion.”
“The cabin was blasted just before eight,” commented the friend. “He’d have had time to do that job, Jerry.”
“Between five and ten minutes leeway,” agreed the garage man. “He had a bag when he came here. I guess the dynamite was in it.”
The two left the garage; Cassidy padlocked the swinging doors. A few minutes passed, then a tiny flashlight glimmered. The Shadow had entered unnoticed. He had heard the talk.
The flashlight shone on the roadster. Inspecting, The Shadow finished with the front and went to the rear.
He placed a gloved hand upon the spare tire as he leaned forward to open the back compartment. The rubber surface yielded under pressure. The Shadow noted that the spare was flat.
Opening the compartment, The Shadow probed the interior. His gloved hands clattered tools about, then emerged. The light, in The Shadow’s right, glimmered upon the glove that covered his left hand. Bits of clayish mud showed on the fingers of The Shadow’s glove.
The light went out. The Shadow moved through darkness. He had no trouble reaching through the space between the rickety doors. He picked Cassidy’s lock, emerged to the street and padlocked the doors behind him.
LATER, The Shadow’s flashlight glimmered in a secluded portion of the countryside. He had left Paulington. He had chosen the left fork outside of town. He had reached the stretch of abandoned road.
He was following that rocky course.
There were muddy spots between jagged stones; these were remnants of the surface that had been washed away. The Shadow’s light showed flattened marks in the mud; indications of smoothed automobile tires. Traces of Harry’s trip.
Some distance along the abandoned road, The Shadow saw where the car had veered to the right. A mud patch showed irregular marks of tires. There were footprints beside them. The Shadow resumed his course.
Fifteen minutes brought him to the path beside the birch trees. One splotch of mud showed a tire track.
The rest of the ground was rocky, giving no other traces. The Shadow followed the path up the hill.
He reached the wreckage of the cabin. There he discovered nothing of consequence. In the clearing, however, he noted leaning underbrush. Soil was dry; footprints absent; yet people had come into this open patch and left their traces.
The Shadow found the faint path toward Table Rock. Flattened underbrush proved that passers had traveled this course, probably in darkness. At one point, traces veered away and ran parallel, then swung back again.
Starlight revealed a cleared space. The Shadow had reached Table Rock. His torch blinked no longer.
The grayish glitter of the rock alone showed beneath the stars. The ground about the ledge was easily visible.
Old paths led from this point. Each one that The Shadow examined gave slight traces of recent use; but these clues were scarcely more than indications. These were too minor to be of value.
Climbing the ledge, The Shadow reached Table Rock itself. His black form became a weird, inky shape as it moved about. Keen eyes were studying the glistening stone. The upper side of the rock marked the end of The Shadow’s inspection.
There the rock extended into the hillside. There was no path leading upward; yet there were traces of loose dirt and dislodged stones that indicated prowlers taking to the higher slope. The Shadow moved back to the front of the rock.
Blackness below. Tree tops showed no reflection of the starlight. Forest all around; no sign of habitation on this portion of the slope. Mountview Lodge The Shadow knew, was around the curve to the east.
The only lights that he could see were the faint glimmers from Paulington street lamps, far beyond the trees. Motionless, The Shadow looked toward those distant dots of yellow.
Then his figure lowered. Downward from the ledge of Table Rock, The Shadow moved into the massed blackness of the woods. Table Rock glittered, its surface no longer splotched with moving, spectral darkness. The Shadow had merged with night.
CHAPTER XI. CLIFF REPORTS
WHILE The Shadow was engaged in his inspection of the sloping hillside, Cliff Marsland was comfortably ensconced in the great room of Mountview Lodge. He was one of a group who lounged before an open fireplace. These were the brood of The Condor.
Cliff had dined with men of crime. He had met them as a fellow member in a company of evil. He had learned their names — their right ones — and they had welcomed him as one who had a right to be here.
The Condor was master of this throng. Griscom Treft sat in the center of the semicircle; Cliff at the edge, could see his profile. Viewed from this perspective, Treft’s nose showed a pronounced hook. It was the ugly, savage-looking beak of a vulture. Another good reason for The Condor’s choice of title.
“The thirteenth has nearly arrived,” Treft was announcing to his listeners. “After that date, our plans will involve action. We shall be ready for great undertakings. Our field will be the world.”
Treft chuckled harshly. His bird-like eyes turned toward Cliff; The Shadow’s agent caught The Condor’s stare. He knew that these statements were for his benefit. The others had already listened to The Condor’s promises.
“Each of you has shown his ability.” The Condor made this pronouncement as he arose. “You, Jengley” — he clapped his hand upon the shoulder of a long-faced rogue who sat beside him — “came here before all others. The swag that you brought was cash.”
“Fifty grand,” acknowledged Jengley, with a reminiscent chuckle. “I ran wild, chief, when I forged those checks on the account of Isaac Blodgett. It was kind of nice the old boy died soon after. His estate never wised to the swindle.”
“And your token of identity,” chuckled The Condor, “was Blodgett’s signature, the one you knew so well. Remember how you came into my study? You saw the silver bird; you produced a sheet of paper and wrote Blodgett’s name as if it had been your own.”
“I remember you comparing it,” laughed Jengley. “Well, chief, when the works gets going, I’ll be on hand to sign any monickers you pick for me.”
The Condor nodded, satisfied. He stared toward a husky, hard-faced man who was seated opposite Cliff.
“You were second, Jake,” recalled The Condor. “Yes, I remember that pleasant evening when Jake Lussig entered my study and presented the Florentine medallion as proof that he had robbed the Memorial Museum. You brought heavy swag, Jake.”
“Three trunk loads, chief,” laughed Jake, gruffly. “The gold in that bunch of coins and medals ought to be worth plenty nowadays.”