“Bringing that up, eh?” he snorted. “If I was as big a swell-head as them folks, I’d walk out of here right now.”
“You’re welcome to it, Yager. Your confession to thefts of hen roosts can wait until later. We have more important business here tonight.”
“Smart guy, eh? Well, that comes of ‘em, putting in a kid for county prosecutor. I ought to be leaving; but just because you think you know so much, I’m going to stay. And talk.”
“There’s the door, Yager,” snapped Goodling, coming to his feet. “Use it in a hurry before I have you pitched out of here. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” chuckled Yager, holding his ground. “You want me to clear out — without telling you what I know. About that house you’re looking for — and the people who were living in it.”
Goodling stood staring, rigid. Yager snorted a laugh. He pulled a wad of bank notes from his pocket and flung them on the desk beside his hat.
“See that there money?” demanded the squatter. “Well, that was given to me to keep my trap shut. It was given to me by a fellow named Blissop. He was living there in that house.”
“Blissop?” queried Goodling. “You mean—”
“I mean the guy they did away with,” broke in Yager. “You’re looking for a dead man, ain’t you? Well, I’m telling you who he was. Blissop — that was his name.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t know them. But they got rid of Blissop because he was pulling a double-cross.”
Doctor Claig had drawn close to the desk. Harry Vincent could see the sharp gleam of the physician’s eyes. He fancied that he could hear Claig’s breath coming in short, tense wheezes.
It was Parrell, however, who spoke to Yager. The detective had come to his feet. His expression was eager. He wanted to know more. He pointed as Yager turned toward him.
“You saw the murder of this man Blissop?” questioned Parrell. “You were a witness to the crime?”
“Me?” snorted Yager. “Say — I wouldn’t have gone near that place. Not after Blissop talked to me. He spilled everything, he did, to keep me quiet. He thought I’d stay quiet because he gave me the dough.
“Say — I’m going to tell you folks who’s who and what’s what. I’m going to give away a mighty slick game so you’ll all be straight. You won’t have much trouble finding the man you want after I’m through.”
YAGER paused. His grin returned. Claig was at his side, hands half raised. Parrell, still beside the desk, was wagging his finger; the detective was seeking to attract Yager’s attention. But the squatter was facing Goodling, gloating in his triumph over the new prosecutor who had accused him of chicken stealing.
“Blissop come to me,” began Yager, “and he says to listen. He gives me money. He says there’s going to be more. He says to me on Saturday night that when—”
A staccato gun bark ended Yager’s sentence. The burst came from outside the window. Harry Vincent leaped to his feet as he saw the flash in the darkness. A gulp came from Hector Yager as the big squatter straightened in front of the desk.
Then, like the echoes of that first bark, came two new bursts from beyond the window. With those flashes, Yager crumpled; he sprawled headforemost across the desk. Assassins from the trees behind the courthouse had drilled the squatter with their bullets.
As Goodling stood rigid, Claig stepped forward and bent above the body. The physician seemed fearless of new shots. He was acting to aid the stricken man. Roy Parrell, however, was quick to see new danger.
Leaping away from the desk, the private detective dived for the wall beside the door. He blinked out the light. The darkened room afforded no new targets for hidden killers in the night.
Goodling sprang to the window as he heard the roar of a motor. A car was shooting away from the curb of an isolated street beyond the trees that formed a cluster in the grounds behind the courthouse.
“Get them!” barked the prosecutor. “Through the window! Through the door! Outside, you fools!”
Goodling was yanking open a desk drawer. He grabbed a revolver in the darkness and sprang through the window to the ground a few feet below. Parrell scrambled after him; the detective had a gun of his own.
The deputies yanked open the door and dashed through the corridor to spread the alarm, then circled the courthouse. The reporters followed. Harry Vincent was about to leave when he heard someone by the light switch. The light clicked on. It revealed Doctor Leo Claig.
The physician gazed sharply at Harry; then turned on his heel and went to the desk to examine Yager’s body. Harry watched Claig. He saw a slow solemn nod of the physician’s head; an indication that the squatter was dead.
Claig was still beside the body when Goodling and the others returned. The prosecutor’s face was grim. The brief chase had proven futile. Killers had made a quick get-away in a waiting car. Half a dozen new deputies had arrived; they were men who had searched for the missing house that very afternoon.
JAY GOODLING studied the squad before him. He looked at Yager’s body; then gave a prompt decision. His words brought comment of approval from the crowd.
“We’re going out to Yager’s cabin,” declared the prosecutor. “We’ll see what we can find there. Come along; we’re starting for Dobson’s Road.”
Men tramped from the office. This time, Harry Vincent followed. Hector Yager’s body remained, watched only by Doctor Leo Claig.
Death had claimed a witness about to testify regarding the location of the vanished house. The law was moving to follow the one lead that it had gained. Such a course was likely to prove barren; but it was the only one to take.
Harry Vincent realized that the trip to Yager’s would probably prove futile. He would have preferred to stay at the courthouse until Clyde Burke arrived, for he was already puzzled by his fellow agent’s absence.
But Harry had a part to play. He and Clyde were supposed to be mere acquaintances, both newspapermen, but not companions in a hidden surface. It was up to Harry to continue the bluff that The Shadow had ordered. He must not jeopardize his usefulness by failing to join the other reporters who were anxious to see the squatter’s cabin.
With these thoughts in mind, Harry Vincent entered a waiting automobile that was about to start for the shack where Hector Yager would no longer dwell.
CHAPTER VII
KILLERS IN THE DARK
ONLY a few hours had elapsed since The Shadow’s return to the lonely house on Dobson’s Road. Those hours had brought no change to this silent terrain. This evening’s episodes had so far been confined to the town of Sheffield.
All was still within the house on Dobson’s Road. Complete blackness had enveloped the building. The Shadow lay hidden within that thickened gloom. He was listening as he had been since dusk; waiting for some betraying sound of a prowler’s approach.
Click! The Shadow heard the noise from the darkness of the stairs. A key, scraping in a lock. The sound ended; then it repeated. Someone was trying to open the front door. The Shadow waited while the sound continued at brief intervals.
Squeaking hinges told that the door had yielded. A faint puff of air breezed through the darkened hall beside the stairs. Then came footsteps, cautious, creaking tokens of advance. Dull reflections told of blinking flashlights.
Prowlers had entered. Two men; not one. They were sneaking through the rooms on the ground floor, making a close inspection of the secluded house. The blinks appeared from the rear. The men had cut through to the long hall.
Parlor — living room — hall again. The blinks were by the side door that The Shadow had entered. Light gleamed toward the stairs, then ran along the wall. Someone grunted; a hand clicked a light switch.