“Instructions,” he informed. “Return to the Torrington. Go to Room 620. Use key in envelope. Make thorough search. Note everything; but disturb nothing. Then report.”
Leaving the telephone booth, Harry dipped his hand in his pocket, to withdraw an envelope that he had received that morning from Rutledge Mann. Opening the envelope, he found a flat key. He crumpled the envelope, threw it away and pocketed the key.
Still wondering at these unexpected instructions, Harry strolled into the lobby of the Torrington. The derby-hatted man was still about, staring glumly; but he paid no attention to Harry. The Shadow’s agent took an elevator to the sixth floor.
Reaching Room 620, Harry found that his key worked the lock. He entered and closed the door behind him. He made a complete, though rapid search, of every bureau drawer. He raised the mattress and looked beneath. He searched table and closet; he found the telephone book and thumbed through all its pages, standing near the window for more light. His survey produced nothing.
Harry departed. Back at the cigar store, he put in a call to Burbank and detailed his complete procedure.
Burbank ordered him to end his watch at the Torrington, and to call within an hour for new instructions.
Keen disappointment gripped Harry Vincent as he went on his way. Somehow, he knew, The Shadow must have gained that key to Room 620; probably that room was the one that Montague Rayne had formerly occupied. But Harry was troubled because the search had brought nothing. Apparently, it had been a last resort to gain some trace of Montague Rayne. As such a move, it had failed.
SHORTLY after six o’clock, a messenger boy arrived at the old Doyd mansion, to leave an envelope for Mark Lundig. Hardly had the messenger departed before a taxi pulled up in front of the house and Lundig himself stepped out. A wise-faced driver watched his passenger ascend the steps.
Entering the house, Lundig spied Theresa at the foot of the stairs. Lundig had been admitted by Wilfred; but he scarcely noted the servant. All he saw was the envelope that Theresa was holding. He made sharp inquiry:
“Is that for me?”
Theresa nodded.
“Wilfred just received it,” she explained. “He gave it to me; I intended to lay it on your plate at the dinner table.”
“I am not staying for dinner,” snapped Lundig. “I am going back to my hotel. Let me have the envelope.”
The girl gave him the message. Lundig ripped open the envelope; holding a strip of paper so that neither Theresa nor Wilfred could observe it, he read these roughly typewritten words:
See you Room 404 Daxler Bldg. Important.—N.
Lundig crumpled the strip of paper. He hurried from the house. The cab was still there; Lundig barked an order to the shrewd-faced driver and climbed aboard.
Theresa, back in the mansion, went to the library. Seeing Egbert there, she retraced her course and went up to her own room. She called Donald Shiloh’s apartment. Jeffrey answered. Half a minute later, Shiloh was on the wire.
“Mark Lundig came in hurriedly,” explained the girl. “He snatched a message that a boy had just delivered. He read it and went out. It may have been from N.”
“Probably unimportant,” returned Shiloh. “Was that the only time he was at the house to-day?”
“No,” answered Theresa. “He was here this morning for a short while. But I heard no creeping footsteps.”
“Don’t worry then,” laughed Shiloh. “Suppose I drop over and have dinner with you. Will there be a place for me?”
“Surely,” returned the girl. “You will be most welcome, Donald.”
SEVEN o’clock. A light was burning in The Shadow’s sanctum. Beneath it lay the photostatic copies of the code list that The Shadow had obtained at Clavelock’s. A bulb glimmered on the wall. The Shadow picked up the earphones.
Reports from Burbank. Moe Shrevnitz had picked up Mark Lundig as a fare that morning and had taken him to the Soulette Hotel, near Seventy-second Street. Hawkeye had spotted Lundig leaving there at five-thirty; he had immediately followed prearranged instructions. Moe, in turn, had gained Lundig as a passenger and had taken him to the Doyd mansion; after that, to the Daxler Building, on Thirtieth Street.
Harry Vincent had joined Cliff Marsland. Both had reported that they were following instructions to the letter. Further reports would be forthcoming later. That announcement brought an end to Burbank’s statements.
The Shadow delivered brief instructions. Those finished, he clicked off the bluish light. His laugh was sinister within the sanctum; when its echoes died, naught but silence remained. The Shadow had departed.
The Creeper’s moves had been completed. So had The Shadow’s. Though circumstances might not have indicated it, The Shadow’s purposes were progressing. The master of justice was tightening the net in which he hoped to enmesh the superman of crime.
CHAPTER XVIII. DOLLARS AND DEATH
NINE o’clock. Far from Manhattan, the little town of Ridley lay blanketed beneath sodden night. Except for its main cross streets, this tiny Long Island hamlet was clothed in complete darkness. The cloaking blackness was particularly thick along the portion of the town that fringed Long Island Sound. Mist, rising from the water, added its soupy denseness to the gloom.
It seemed astounding that this secluded place could be no further than a dozen miles from Manhattan. To Reggie Spaylor, seated behind the wheel of an open roadster, the silence betokened absolute isolation.
The only sounds that Spaylor could hear were the occasional rumbles of steamboat whistles, plying through misty waters. Those evidences of human presence came from far out upon the Sound; a fact which brought malicious pleasure to the crooked athlete.
For Reggie Spaylor wanted no interference on to-night’s mission. He was the ace in The Creeper’s hand; a clever card deputed to play a winning game. Blackness and isolation were to his liking as he stared through the night, keeping his eyes in the direction of the house with the gables.
Reggie could not see that lonely building; but he was positive of its location. He had driven by the odd old house before he picked this waiting spot, half a block away.
A sudden glimmer attracted Spaylor’s attention. It came like a flaring beacon from a lighthouse; a glow high up, made flickering by the swirl of fog. It was the token that Spaylor had been awaiting. He knew the location of that light. It came from the second gable of the house that was now the residence of Montague Rayne.
Alighting from his roadster, Reggie strolled through darkness. He was pulling on his gloves; he swung his cane jauntily, purely from habit. His feet picked out the cracked cement sidewalk; his eyes chose their direction by watching the light from the gable. It was shining through a pale green windowshade, that light, and its rays were easy to discern.
Reaching the front of the old house the husky athlete tried the door. He found it locked; that did not matter. This house had many windows on the ground floor. Edging along the side, Reggie came to one and worked upon the sash. It was locked; but the wooden frame proved flimsy. One upward jolt brought a dull splintering. The lower half of the window raised. Reggie Spaylor climbed over the sill.
Pitch-darkness was within. Reggie’s footsteps sounded hollow amid unfurnished rooms. He was muffling his tread, searching for a stairway. He found it when he stumbled. Pausing, the highbrow crook listened.
No sound from above; his blundering had not been heard.
Taking no further chances, Reggie used a flashlight upon the stairs. With its aid, he reached the second floor and picked out a flight of stairs that led to the third. Halfway up those steps, he extinguished his torch. He needed it no longer; for he could see a streak of light shining from beneath a door. He had located the room in the gable.