As aftermath to this strange chain of episodes, the law had discovered the spot that The Shadow had found hours before — the house that searchers thought had vanished. Within that house lay evidence.
Men of crime had failed to remove the steamer trunk that bore the initials of Myra Dolthan and which contained an envelope addressed to the girl herself.
The search for the missing heiress would gain new impetus, thanks to the consequences that had followed The Shadow’s fight.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LAW PREPARES
THE big clock in the Sheffield courthouse was striking ten when three cars rolled up in front of the gloomy, old-fashioned building. Jay Goodling was returning with his squad from the house on Dobson’s Road.
A lone deputy came forward from the courthouse steps. He started to speak to the prosecutor. Goodling waved him aside in order to superintend the unloading of the steamer trunk from one of the cars. The deputy managed, however, to get a statement off his chest.
“It’s important, prosecutor,” he insisted. “It’s about your friend Lanford—”
“Where is Lanford?” questioned Goodling, suddenly turning about. “I want to see him. Is he here yet?”
“No,” returned the deputy. “He’s missing. Don’t know where he is. This reporter fellow is in your office.”
“Burke?”
“Yeah. Waiting to see you, prosecutor.”
Goodling bounded up the steps. Roy Parrell followed, and Harry Vincent did the same. Two deputies were hoisting the trunk; they decided to carry it to the prosecutor’s office.
When Harry and Parrell reached the rear office, they found Goodling already there. The prosecutor was staring at Clyde Burke, who was resting wearily in a chair beside the desk. Doctor Claig was standing beside the reporter.
“Where’s Lanford?” Goodling was demanding. “What’s happened to him, Burke? What’s happened to you?”
Clyde’s clothes showed that he had been in a scuffle. The reporter’s sleeves were ripped; his suit was mud-stained. His face showed bruises.
“Lanford has been abducted,” interposed Claig, quietly, before Clyde could explain. “He and Burke had a battle with some fellow whom they met outside of town. Lanford was carried off.”
“By whom?” questioned Goodling, savagely.
“By Croy,” replied Clyde. “The big fellow that you and Lanford saw at the missing house.”
“Let me have the details, Burke.”
CLYDE gave them. He told of the fight; his subsequent fall from Croy’s sedan. He stated that he had walked into town; that he had arrived at half past nine to find the prosecutor absent.
“Half past nine?” questioned Goodling. “That was half an hour ago. Why wasn’t I informed sooner?”
“You were up at Yager’s,” said Claig. “There was no way to reach you, prosecutor. I advised Burke to rest here until you returned.”
“And you started no search for Lanford?”
“There was no use. You had taken all your men except one; and I supposed that you wanted him to stay here.”
“You seem to have an exaggerated idea of your authority, doctor.”
Claig smiled at Goodling’s outburst. With eyes gleaming shrewdly, the physician replied to the prosecutor’s harsh statement.
“On the contrary, Goodling,” declared Claig, “I did not usurp any privileges. I am merely a physician; not an officer of the law. The only advice that I could give was for Burke to rest until you returned. It was beyond my province to order a hunt for Lanford.”
Goodling could think of no retort. He was angry; but realized that Claig’s mild reproval allowed no criticism. Turning about, Goodling addressed the two deputies who had brought in the trunk.
“Everyone out to hunt for Lanford,” snapped the prosecutor. “Start from the traffic light on Elm Street. Follow out to the old Northwest Road. Look for a suspicious sedan; hunt a big man with a scarred face. By the way, where are the reporters?”
“Coming in,” replied a deputy. “They’re in the last car. Take ‘em along, shall we?”
“Yes,” decided Goodling. “Burke and Vincent both represent the press. They’re enough to be here.”
Momentary silence followed the departure of the deputies. A train was chugging from somewhere beyond the courthouse; its clanging bell told that it was pulling out of town. Goodling spied the trunk. He opened it and began to examine the papers in the tray.
“Look at this,” he said suddenly. He had found the envelope. “Addressed to Myra Dolthan, in Paris. This is her trunk, all right.”
“I knew that from the initials,” returned Parrell, indicating the end of the trunk. “The L stands for Lucille — the girl’s middle name.”
There were footsteps in the hall. Goodling looked up to see a tall, dignified man, whose thin gray hair topped a straight forehead. The arrival’s face was a kindly one; yet trouble showed upon its drooping lips.
Behind the newcomer were two others. One was a solemn, long-faced individual of slight build; the other was a cabby from the station. The cabby was burdened with two heavy suitcases.
“Rufus Dolthan!” exclaimed Parrell, springing forward to greet the gray-haired man. “I am sorry, sir. I should have met you at the station. But there has been trouble here.”
DOLTHAN’S kindly eyes had narrowed as they spied the trunk. The gray-haired man noticed the foreign papers in the opened tray.
“Myra’s?” he questioned, in a worried tone. “You have traced her, Parrell?”
“Yes,” nodded the private detective. “This is Mr. Goodling, sir. He can explain better than I.”
Rufus Dolthan bowed. He turned to the long-faced man behind him and gave an order.
“Pay the cabby, Souder,” said Dolthan. “Have him take our luggage to the hotel. After that, you may join me here.”
Souder nodded and went out with the cabby. Dolthan sat down in a chair. Goodling took his seat behind the desk; then introduced Claig, Harry and Clyde.
“Matters are still unsettled,” explained Goodling, to Dolthan. “Nevertheless, I was about to summarize what we have learned. Therefore, Mr. Dolthan, your arrival enables you to hear of certain unfortunate developments.”
“Concerning my niece?” questioned Dolthan, anxiously.
“Only indirectly,” replied Goodling. “First of all, Mr. Dolthan, we had evidence of strangers in this vicinity. Two nights ago, a man named Lanford and myself entered an unknown house and there met a man named Kermal.”
“Taussig Kermal?”
“Yes. He could hardly have been any other person. We also met a young woman who answers the description of your niece, Myra. She warned us to leave.”
“She seemed well?”
“Yes. Her concern was for us; not for herself.”
“Of course. Of course. Kermal would be according her the best possible treatment. The scoundrel will have to maintain her confidence until after she is of age.”
“SO I understand from Parrell. But to resume, Mr. Dolthan, we had not, until tonight, gained any trace of the house or its occupants. Then events commenced.
“First, regarding Lanford. He was driving into town with Burke” — Goodling indicated the reporter — “and they encountered a man in a sedan. Lanford recognized the fellow as Croy, a servant of Taussig Kermal.
“Croy was a powerful fighter, as I can testify. He carried Lanford away; he dropped Burke on a road outside of town. Hence we were not immediately acquainted with what had happened.
“I was holding conference here. A squatter named Hector Yager entered and told of dealing with a man called Blissop, a servant of Kermal’s who was murdered. Before Yager could complete his testimony, shots were fired through this window. Yager was slain under our very eyes.”