“The Creeper?”
The girl laughed at Shiloh’s question.
“I mean the person who has made those footsteps. The name occurred to me the other night. I think of him as The Creeper.”
“Go back in the house, Theresa.” Shiloh spoke slowly. “Make sure about Lundig. If he has gone out, I don’t think that you will hear the creeping again.”
“You think Mark Lundig is The Creeper?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. But I can’t figure who else could be — that is, among persons who openly enter this house. Uncle Egbert is rather sickly; Wilfred is an old and trusted servant. No one else ever comes here except myself and Clavelock.”
“Mr. Clavelock has not been here since he made his trip, Donald. He has called from his home, that is all.”
Shiloh nodded seriously.
“I’m thinking of two things, Theresa,” he stated. “Lundig’s way of acting, and that side door. If I could only hear the creeping for myself, I might make a better guess; as it is, I can settle on one point. The creeping has happened when Lundig has been about; or when he could have been about. Still, any one could use that side door.”
“Mark could use it. Keys are available.”
“I know. But we must not talk too long, Theresa. Go back in the house, while I stay in my car. If all is well, signal from your upstairs window. Turn the lights off; then on. If I don’t see the signal within ten minutes, I shall come banging at the front door.”
THERESA laughed, and went back into the house. Shiloh descended the steps and entered his coupe.
While both were turned, The Shadow glided along the front of the house; he turned into the side passage and moved swiftly to the obscure side door. He unlocked it in less than a dozen seconds. Entering, he reached the black gloom of the hall.
Theresa was opening the sliding doors of the reception room, the only place on the ground floor where Mark Lundig might have gone, if he had not left the house. A querulous voice came from the darkened room. Theresa stepped back, startled; then showed relief as old Egbert Doyd came stalking out into the hall.
“I was dozing,” quibbled Egbert, sourly. “Why did you disturb my nap?”
“Sorry, Uncle Egbert,” returned Theresa. “I was looking for Mark Lundig. Is he about?”
“Why question me?” demanded Egbert. “I have been asleep. I know nothing about Lundig. Look for him yourself!”
Egbert started toward the stairway. Theresa came toward the library. The Shadow saw the uncle turn about and stare after the girl. Stretching his chin, Egbert decided to go in that direction also. He reached the library door and stopped. He had heard Theresa talking from within the room; the girl was making a telephone call.
Egbert opened the door; evidently Theresa did not hear him. Her voice sounded louder; The Shadow could catch its words.
“At the Torrington,” Theresa was saying. “Yes, Mr. Clavelock, that is where Montague Rayne is staying… I have written the address, from the telephone book… What is that? You don’t intend to go and see him? I understand… Of course. He and my grandfather probably had not seen each other for years…”
Egbert Doyd was strolling away. The Shadow saw him reach the stairs. Moving forward, the cloaked watcher discovered that Egbert had left the library door ajar. Peering, The Shadow saw Theresa tearing up a slip of paper. Hearing the swing of a door, The Shadow moved back into the darkness at the rear of the hall.
Wilfred came from the dining room and walked directly to the library. The Shadow saw the servant pause; then enter. Apparently, Wilfred had seen Theresa tearing up the paper slip and tossing it into the wastebasket. A well-trained servant, he would naturally not have intruded at that moment.
Wilfred rapped on the library door. Theresa appeared and smiled as she went by, assuming that the servant had seen nothing. The girl went upstairs; Wilfred went into the library. Soon he returned, carrying the wastebasket; he went into the reception room and reappeared with another trash container. The Shadow watched Wilfred go through the library, back toward the kitchen.
THE SHADOW glided to the side door. He opened it, stepped to the outer darkness and locked the door behind him. Noiselessly, he reached the front of the house; stopping at the exit of the passage, he looked up keenly, to see a light blink from the side windows of the front room on the second floor.
Donald Shiloh had also caught Theresa’s signal that all was well. A motor throbbed; The Shadow watched the coupe slide away from the curb. After a few moments, The Shadow moved out to the sidewalk and glided away under the shelter of darkened building fronts.
A whispered laugh in the darkness. A knowing laugh that faded echoless. The Shadow had gained much, though his visit had been belated. His investigation at the old mansion had given him the chance to make a final check-up. The Shadow learned all he required.
He had heard talk of The Creeper. He had certified his own conjecture as to the mysterious foeman’s true identity. More than that, he had discovered that The Creeper had gained information concerning the recent whereabouts of Montague Rayne.
The Shadow could guess the next move that would be made. He would prepare to check it by means which he had already considered, through measures that would lead to an effective counterstroke. There was work ahead, however, for The Shadow and his agents. The groundwork had been laid; the rest would depend upon clockwork action.
With Jerry Kobal safe, recovering from his ordeal, The Shadow had won one victory of consequence.
New combats were in the making; The Shadow would seek to shape them to his own approval. Leeway to The Creeper; such was the present step. Once given, that easy path would lead to a desired climax in which The Shadow could deal not only with The Creeper, but with the supercrook’s fully assembled hordes.
The future offered promise of new triumph, with a climax on the side of justice. Agents must accomplish their appointed tasks; The Shadow must himself be timely in all actions. Such was all that was required.
The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER XVII. THE CREEPER’S TRAIL
IT was three o’clock the next afternoon when Harry Vincent walked into the lobby of the Torrington, the old but well-kept hotel where Montague Rayne had been registered as a guest. Harry had spent yesterday evening in this lobby; but he had not come back this morning. Instead, Cliff Marsland had been deputed to cover the Torrington.
Harry was relieving Cliff; and in so doing, he was acquainted with certain facts that Cliff had forwarded through Burbank. Cliff had inquired for Montague Rayne, to learn that the man had checked out a few days ago. There was a possibility that he might be back.
Cliff had also noticed a hanger-on who had stayed about the lobby all day. Harry was posted to watch the fellow; he spied him the moment that he entered. The man in question was a bulky, dark-faced individual who wore a derby hat cocked over one eye. He was lounging about when Harry entered; apparently the man was watching for some one whom he expected at the Torrington.
Broad but slouchy shoulders; outthrust chin; lips that held the end of a dead cigar; eyes that were deep-sunk and suspicious — such was the impression that Harry gained of the man with the derby.
The fellow was to be watched until further order. So Harry unfolded a newspaper and sat down in a comfortable chair. He began to read, at the same time keeping an artful eye on the chap with the plug hat.
AT the very time when Harry had entered the lobby of the Torrington, a man was making his arrival in Zimmer Funson’s suite at the Hotel Parkview. Serious and wise-faced, this fellow was one of Zimmer’s surviving touts, an ace upon whom he was relying since the recent death of Hal. Zimmer greeted the newcomer with a growl.