“You’re the fellow who bought the car—”
Brock was blurting another interruption. Marquette stopped him and motioned for Harry to continue.
Harry began with a direct answer to the sheriff’s unfinished query.
“I arrived in Paulington two nights ago,” declared The Shadow’s agent. “I saw the hotel and thought of stopping there. But I happened to make inquiry at the garage and I learned that there was an unoccupied cabin on the hillside.
“I thought that I should see the place; then find out who owned it and rent it for a few weeks, if it proved suitable. I leased a flivver from the garage man and followed his directions. A tire went flat when I reached the abandoned road.
“After fixing the tire, I went on to find the cabin. Halfway up the path, I stopped. I saw a light blinking somewhere near the spot where I thought the cabin must be. Then came an explosion. It seemed as though the whole side of the hill was a mass of fire.
“I was half stunned. By the time I was recovered from the shock, I saw lights coming my direction. I took to the woods, my bag with me. My return to the road was cut off. I didn’t know what would happen next.”
“Logical enough,” observed Marquette, as Harry paused. “That would have seemed like a tough spot to any one, sheriff.”
Brock nodded his agreement. So did Dowden.
“My bag was pretty heavy,” resumed Harry, “but I didn’t notice it. Not until I was a mile up the slope. I wanted to get away and stay under cover. When I stopped to think things over, I felt sure that the dynamiters must have found my flivver.
“I couldn’t go back to the car. I wandered around to get my bearings and finally I struck a broad, stony ledge that seemed like a good landmark.”
“Table Rock,” put in the sheriff. “Go on with the story.”
“I CAMPED up above the ledge,” stated Harry. “The weather had turned nice and I liked the woods. So I decided to camp another night and come into town today.
“But this morning, I heard new prowlers along the slope. I hid my bag and cut over to the north of the hill, waiting for darkness. Then I came back, picked up my bag and headed for town. I didn’t look for the flivver.
“I’d like to know what that bunch is doing on the hill. I don’t know how many were there two nights ago; but it sounded like a dozen today. I figured they were outlaws—”
“They were my men, today,” interposed the sheriff. “We thought you’d been blowed up in that shack, young fellow. But that pack two nights ago — well, it beats me figuring who they were. There’s no outlaws in these parts. I reckon we’ll have to do some heavy scouring.”
“Let’s hold it off, sheriff,” suggested Marquette, seriously. “The best thing we can do right now is get rid of those reporters. Let them stay away until we have a real story for them.”
“How will you manage that?” queried the burgess. “I refer to the matter of sending the reporters back to New York.”
“Easily,” returned Marquette. “Here we have Vincent, the man that was supposed to be dead. An explosion without a victim is no newspaper yarn.”
“That’s right,” agreed the sheriff. “And after they’ve gone, we can start looking—”
The burgess stopped Brock with a headshake. Marquette saw it and smiled.
“Vincent is all right,” declared Vic. “In fact, it would be a good idea to have him stay here. He might as well know why I am on the ground.
“You see, Vincent” — Vic swung to Harry — “I’m looking for a scoundrel named Geoffrey Spadling. Known as Clint Spadling, to his pals. A smart crook, Spadling. Something of a promoter in his way.
“He has contacts with smugglers, counterfeiters and what not. When he gets a good proposition, he brings in others to help him. Well, a few days ago, we raided a print shop out in Cleveland. It was a blind for a counterfeiter’s outfit.
“We picked up some plates and a batch of queer money. Along with the fake mazuma was a note to one of the gang. It was signed by Clint Spadling, telling the fellow to meet him in Southbridge.
“I figured the appointment wouldn’t be kept. I intended to come to Southbridge myself. Then I read about the explosion near here. It just hit me that Spadling might be hooked up with it. I’ve got an idea right now as to what it’s all about.”
Brock and Dowden surveyed Marquette with interest. The operative smiled.
“SUPPOSE Spadling was here with an outfit,” suggested Marquette, “with a money machine working. He’s pretty foxy. He’d have read about that raid in Cleveland. It got into the newspapers. He’d know that we might be on his trail.”
“You mean he could have been using the shack?” questioned the burgess. “As headquarters for his band?”
“That’s the idea, burgess,” broke in the sheriff. “Marquette means that the gang may have blown up the place to get rid of any evidence against them.”
“Not quite,” asserted Marquette. “Spadling is too smart a bird for that, sheriff. He would have a more elaborate headquarters than an abandoned cabin. The purpose of the explosion would be to make us think that he had used the cabin as his base.”
“The cabin could have been a blind,” nodded the burgess. “The real headquarters located somewhere else.”
“That’s it,” acknowledged Marquette. “That’s why I’m staying in town. And Vincent, too, in case he may be useful. We’re going to look for places where the crew might be located. I’m just beginning to get the drift of what Spadling’s game might be.”
Brock swung to Dowden.
“Say, burgess,” blurted the sheriff, pounding the desk as he spoke, “you know that swell lodge around the other side of the slope? What a place that’d be for a smart gang!”
“Mountview Lodge?” Dowden smiled as he shook his head. “Hardly, Brock. Griscom Treft, the man who owns it, is a millionaire. He has lived there for six years.”
“You’re right, burgess. Just the same, nobody knows much about Treft. I wouldn’t have suspicioned anything, mind you — in fact, I don’t say that I’m suspicioning yet. But the slope can’t swallow people. They’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Mountview Lodge,” mused Marquette. “Is it the only place nearby that has a good front?”
“The only one,” admitted the burgess. “The farms hereabout are of little account. It might be worth your while, Marquette, to go over to the lodge.”
“Let him try it,” clucked the sheriff. “Say — did you ever see anybody who’d been inside that fence of Treft’s? I’ve been over there myself; and it’s my opinion those wires on the fence are hooked up with an alarm.
“The lock on that gate is something nobody could bust. And who ever comes out of the place? Nobody except the chauffeur; that sneaky-looking fellow with a face like a rat. Drives down town in his coupe to buy grub. Goes over to Southbridge off and on, too. I’ve seen him there.”
“There are guests at the lodge,” recalled the burgess. “Sometimes one of them is seen with the chauffeur. Do you know, I am commencing to suspect a bit myself.”
“Apparently,” said Marquette, sourly, “it would be impossible for me to enter Mountview Lodge, no matter who might be in there.”
“What’s that?” The sheriff thrust forth his beefy jaw. “You say no matter who’s in there? Listen, Marquette — if you think the dynamite guys are at Mountview Lodge, I’ll take you in there.
“We don’t stand for too much ceremony in this county. When we want search warrants, we get them. Quick, too. If we make mistakes, we apologize and nobody feels sore. If a man’s got nothing to hide, he won’t care if the law looks in on him.
“You say the word and we’ll walk into Mountview Lodge. And we’ll do it some way that will work the way we want. Without anybody knowing we’re coming, until we’re there.”