Again, he wanted to leap forward and grip Treft’s throat to throttle life from this monster who was plotting misfortune, torture and death for scores of innocent persons.
When The Condor’s gloating monologue had ended, Cliff sat dazed with horror. He barely managed to restrain a shudder when Treft arose to clamp a talon on his new underling’s shoulder.
They walked out into the hallway. The others had retired; only Trossler was about, puffing out lights. The Condor’s grip relaxed. An evil smile upon lips, the chief bade his latest henchman good night.
WHEN he reached his own room, Cliff sat down by the window. His head was whirling; his forehead feverish as he touched it. Regularly, in The Shadow’s service, Cliff dealt with crooks on their own ground. He was used to steeling himself against the vile influence of evil men.
But The Condor, calculating, cold, outmatched any fiend whom Cliff had ever encountered. The strength of Treft’s position pointed to the power of his future. True, the law would strike against Mountview Lodge, once it suspected that criminals had found harbor here. But would the law uncover that fact?
Cliff decided no. Trails had been covered. Swag was protected in some mysterious stronghold. As Griscom Treft, The Condor passed suspicion. One point, however, was evident. The time to strike was the present — while Mountview Lodge still held its close-knit band of rogues.
Facts concerning past crime would not help. Incomplete data concerning the lodge would not be useful until later, when Cliff might have learned more about the place. The names of those within these walls were not an important factor in planning some way to reach The Condor.
Thinking of names, Cliff remembered two. Zegler — Spadling. Those were not names of persons located here. They were outside parties, those two whom Corey had mentioned. A grim smile formed on Cliff’s lips. It faded as he stared at the barred window.
To use those names, Cliff needed contact. Instructions had been for him to leave the lodge if possible and meet Harry Vincent at the cabin on the other slope. Should Cliff not put in an appearance, Harry’s duty would have been to come here and try to contact Cliff.
Not this first night, but later. All that, however, was ended. Feverishly, Cliff’s brain began to drum. Harry Vincent was dead — that definite fact swept all other thoughts from mind. Cliff could picture exactly what had happened.
Harry coming to the cabin. Lurkers — fiends whom Cliff had met tonight, men with whom he had feigned friendship — those villains had released their blast. A shattered cabin, its sections tossed about the hillside.
The only comfort was that death must have been swift to the helpless man trapped within the doomed shack.
Rising, Cliff extinguished the light. He came back to the opened window and stared into the blackened night. One hope had come to his tormented brain. He was sure that The Shadow had come to Paulington. It was possible that The Shadow would take up Harry’s task. Contact with Cliff!
As he stared from the window, Cliff became suddenly alert. Yards away, beyond the fence, something had blinked from among the trees. It came again: quick, instantaneous flickers of a flashlight.
The Shadow’s code! Calling for an answer!
FINDING his opened bag, Cliff dug deep and produced a flashlight. He blinked an answering symbol.
Contact was made. Tensely, Cliff decided to send the vital information.
Blinking his light at the window, he signaled two names in the code used by The Shadow and his agents.
Zegler was the first name; Spadling the second. Then Cliff added a brief sentence stating that those men were somewhere at large and must be found.
Blinks from beyond the fence. The Shadow’s symbol for concluded transmission. Cliff signed off in return. A profound ease settled through his throbbing brain. One step had been made against The Condor.
From small beginnings, The Shadow could produce great deeds. Hope held Cliff Marsland as he thought of the future. The Shadow knew the fate of Harry Vincent; of that, Cliff was positive.
Inspired by vengeance, The Shadow would never relent until he had dealt destruction to those who deserved it. Though The Condor might think himself secure, Cliff knew that the supercrook would be forced to cope with a foe whose craft had conquered others who dealt in crime.
Brief though the time might be, Cliff Marsland felt the positive belief that before crooks left Mountview Lodge, The Condor would meet The Shadow face to face.
CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW’S JOURNEY
IT was four o’clock the next afternoon. Half a dozen men were seated upon Table Rock, chatting while they smoked their pipes. Their conversation dealt with developments in Paulington.
“Like as not, the fellow was blowed up in that cabin,” remarked a big, unshaven chap whose voice carried a rustic twang. “Figuring that, I can’t see no reason for us tramping all along the slope.”
“‘Tain’t the dead man we’re looking for, Hank,” observed a comrade. “The sheriff wants to find out who set off them fireworks.”
“Hadn’t he figured that the city chap could ha’ done it for himself?”
“What’s become of him then?”
“Maybe he was blowed up with it. Say — when’s the sheriff due here?”
“He’s coming now, Hank.”
As the words were spoken, Sheriff Brock appeared from the cabin path. With him were three strangers.
One of the men on the rock whispered to a paclass="underline"
“Reporters — up from New York.”
“Any luck, men?” queried the sheriff.
“Nothing much, Howie,” responded Hank, as spokesman. “Luther, here, found what looked like a campfire further up the hill; but it didn’t strike me as meaning nothing.”
“Built recently, was it?”
“Didn’t look that way. I’d have said them logs have been lying there well nigh on to a month.”
“No use looking at it then.”
The sheriff waved for searchers to come down from the rock. They had been searching the terrain individually; Table Rock was their meeting place. Obviously, Brock was going back to town, and the members of his party were glad to do the same.
TEN minutes after the searchers had left the ledge, a figure appeared silently from a lower path. It was The Shadow, in the guise of Henry Arnaud. Up here on the slope, he had found little difficulty in avoiding the spreadout searchers.
Skirting the ledge, The Shadow cut in to the spot that he had examined on the night before, where loose stones had marked progress up the slope. Tracing through scrub, he reached a tiny clearing. There, under the shelter of a dwarfed pine tree, he found the fire that Luther had reported.
Blackened logs were all that remained above gray ashes. But The Shadow, pressing logs aside, found something that brought a soft laugh from his lips. It was the stump of a hand-fashioned cigarette.
To The Shadow’s observation, this fire was of fairly recent building. Chunks from the small logs indicated that someone had been careful to thoroughly extinguish it. That was why Hank had decided the fire was a month old. The Shadow’s estimate limited its age to a week or less.
This tiny clearing was well hidden. A fire, burning here, could not have been seen from the ledge below.
It seemed likely that the person who had built the fire had come up from Table Rock. The Shadow’s task was to find any other direction that the unknown man might have taken.
There was no path from the clearing. Hence there were two indications, among pressed bushes, that showed the camper’s course. One was down to Table Rock. The other, toward the rise of the hill.
Choosing this course, The Shadow began a trail. A dozen yards along, he made a discovery: another cigarette stump trampled on the ground. Like the first, it was handmade. It had been carefully extinguished.