SILENTLY, The Shadow placed the bag on the window sill. He attached the end of the rope to the bag handle; then swung himself out into darkness.
Stretching upward, The Shadow gained the edge of the hotel roof. His shape was a mass of swinging blackness as it ascended. From the roof, The Shadow tugged at the cord. The suitcase swung like a pendulum; then it was drawn up to where The Shadow crouched.
A muffled crash from the room below. The sheriff had jolted the door with his shoulder; the lock had broken. A light blinked on below. Crouched on the roof’s edge, The Shadow listened. He could hear voices engaged in discussion.
Two figures appeared by the open window. The Shadow could discern them as he leaned from the blackened roof. One man was Sheriff Brock; the other Vic Marquette.
“Chase the reporters,” suggested Vic in a tone that The Shadow could hear. “Tell them to go downstairs with the clerk.”
Brock barked an order. The Shadow heard departing footsteps; the muffled sound of a closing door.
Brock and Marquette remained by the window; The Shadow heard the sheriff state:
“This fellow Arnaud beat it, all right. That makes him look suspicious to me. The clerk says for sure that he came up here.”
“Maybe he is phony,” returned Marquette. “But as soon as we got over here to the hotel and heard the clerk’s description of him, I knew that it couldn’t be Clint Spadling.”
“Then what did you come up for?” inquired the sheriff.
“On account of the reporters,” explained Marquette. “They were at our heels. They figured we were looking for somebody. Listen, sheriff: we’ll let those newshawks think we were after Arnaud. Not a word to them about Spadling. Understand?”
“I’m with you on it. But are you sure that Arnaud couldn’t be Spadling? Might be disguised, you know.”
“Not a chance. The clerk says Arnaud is tall; with clear complexion and a solemn face. Spadling is bulky like; he couldn’t hide that. What’s more, he’s dark; and his mug is a mean one. He couldn’t keep those bulging teeth of his out of sight.”
“We’ll look for him.”
“Right; and when we locate Spadling, we’ll have a line on any phony business that’s been going on around here. The man’s a bad egg. Always has been.”
The speaker moved back into the room. A door slam told of their departure. The Shadow crept along the roof; he dropped his bag to the fire escape; then descended. He reached the coupe in back of the hotel. He started the car and drove slowly away along a secluded street.
CLYDE BURKE was eating an egg sandwich at the local lunch counter when a man entered and looked at Clyde and other reporters. The fellow inquired:
“Who’s Mr. Burke?”
Clyde acknowledged the name. The man handed him an envelope.
“Friend of yours sent this,” he stated. “Some gent in a coupe. Asked me to bring it in here.”
Clyde opened the message. He held it so he alone could see the writing. Coded words in bluish ink — orders from The Shadow. The writing faded to blankness; a way with all messages between The Shadow and his agents. Clyde smiled as he thrust the blank sheet in his pocket. He tossed a quarter dollar to the messenger, who grinned his thanks and strolled out.
Outside of Paulington, a coupe was approaching the fork. It swung left at the junction point; from the darkness behind the wheel came a whispered laugh. The Shadow, his part of Arnaud ended, was faring forth on a new and important mission.
CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN AT THE MILL
THICK darkness lay beneath overhanging trees. Silence of night was disturbed only by the ripple of a little stream. Then, barely audible in the gloom, came the closing of a door, followed by a momentary swish.
The Shadow had found the side road to the old mill. He had followed it until he discovered an open space beside the road. There he had parked the coupe, between the road and the stream close by. His car was well obscured by the surrounding trees.
Moving stealthily along the bank of the stream, The Shadow chose a sure course toward the old mill.
Despite the sloshing mud that brinked the water, he progressed so silently that all sound of his advance was covered by the babbling of the stream.
At the end of one hundred yards, The Shadow encountered a structure of wood. It was the trough of an old millrace, a crude flume that came from a dark building bulking up ahead.
The Shadow followed this new line. He reached the wooden wall of the mill; moved to the right across a shaky timber; then skirted the side of the building to find the dim light of a window.
Here The Shadow edged head and shoulder to the lower corner of a grimy pane. The glass was absent from the upper sash. As The Shadow looked into the building, he could hear the sound of muffled voices.
Two men were seated in an oddly furnished room. It had once been combination office and storeroom; now it had been fashioned into a crude living room. In one corner, The Shadow saw a battered counter; in another, shelves that were sturdy in construction. There was a roll-top desk beyond the counter; a stove in the center of the room.
Added to these relics of the mill’s forgotten glory were stuffed chairs and heavy tables that had come from an old-fashioned parlor. The illumination was provided by two kerosene lamps; the light was sufficient to show the faces of the occupants.
One was a brawny, long-limbed man whose face was hatchetlike. Hard-eyed, smooth-shaven, this individual was dressed in clothes that were new, but poor in fit. It was plain that he must be the proprietor of the old mill.
The other was a gawky, dull-faced rustic, whose chinless lower jaw was engaged in gum chewing.
Seated on the edge of a chair, his elbows slouched upon a table, this youth was drawling in a high-pitched voice.
“You know, Uncle Hiram,” he was saying, “folks was a-tellin’ me that this here old mill oughta be opened up again. Hain’t many places hereabouts where they kin get the kinda flour they like.”
“No?” queried the hatchet-faced man gruffly. “Well, if the folks you talk about would mind their own business, it would be more to my liking.”
“They say you’ve got enough money to start it goin’ again, uncle,” put in the youth. “They allow that you was right smart buyin’ an’ sellin’ property. They say there ain’t no need for a man to be retirin’, when he’s no older than you be.”
“You tell them that Hiram Zegler knows what he’s doing. Agree with them that your uncle is a right smart man. Let it go at that, Elisha.”
The gawky youth nodded. He arose from his chair and slouched about the room. He watched Hiram Zegler pluck his hat from a peg on the wall.
“We’re going to town, Elisha,” informed the retired miller. “Get your cap. I’ll let you drive the car.”
“Hadn’t you agoin’ to draw up the net?” Elisha nudged toward a door at the far side of the room. “Mebbe you’d find some likely pickerel, like there was last night.”
“I’m waiting a few days for a good catch,” returned Zegler. “By the way, Elisha, remember that you’re to keep quiet about the way I do my fishing. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Hadn’t nobody agoin’ to make trouble for you. They go polin’ hereabouts an’ the warden, he don’t kick.”
“No? Well, he would if he knew about it. And that’s not all, Elisha. There’s farmers all along here who would put out nets of their own if they knew I was doing it. So keep quiet like you say you’ve been doing. Come along; let’s start.”
Elisha slouched over and took a cap from a peg. Hiram Zegler extinguished the lights. The two went out from the room. When next they appeared, they had made their exit from a small door at the rear of the mill.