“Get that diary of Myra Dolthan’s,” said Harry. “It’s in the secret pocket of my suitcase. Here’s one point, Clyde; you’ve got to start the fireworks. The question is, can you ring Parrell in on it? Can you get him out of the hotel? Just for a stroll — any pretext — just so you’ll have a chance to steer him on a job of sleuthing that he’ll think is his own?”
Clyde pondered.
“If you can’t,” said Harry, “you can do the job alone. But if you can bring in Parrell—”
“I’ve got it!” interrupted Clyde. “Yesterday, Parrell whiffed some smoke from Claig’s pipe. The doctor was smoking when we were up there. The aroma suited Parrell and he dug out a swell briar of his own. He was smoking it today.”
“Well?”
“He left it in Goodling’s office. Parrell will be wondering where he dropped it. Let’s go and see if it’s still there.”
“Fine. Bring the diary.”
FIVE minutes later, The Shadow’s agents strolled into Goodling’s office. The prosecutor was out to dinner; but he never locked his door. The lights were on; and Clyde spied a pipe on the desk. The reporter recognized it as Parrell’s.
“Pocket it,” whispered Harry. Then, as they strolled out through the vacated corridor, he questioned: “Didn’t I see Parrell in the station wagon about the middle of the afternoon?”
“Yes,” replied Clyde. “He was in the front seat, talking with Carter. That was just after Carter came in to report no luck to Goodling.”
“That’s great!” Harry chuckled as they reached the street. He looked across to the spot where the station wagon was parked near a big limousine that belonged to Rufus Dolthan. “We’ll have some planting to do, Clyde. We’ll have dinner first; then take in a movie. It will be after ten by then. I’ll do the planting; you’ll handle the rest.”
“What’s the stunt, Harry?”
They had reached the little restaurant where they usually ate. Harry motioned for silence. He whispered last words as they entered.
“I’ll tell you after dinner, Clyde,” said Harry. “When we’re in the movie, you can slip me the pipe and the diary.”
They sat down at a table. Clyde was still half mystified. But Harry wore a smile. He knew that The Shadow’s orders could be carried through with ease. Clyde Burke would understand as well, as soon as Harry could give him three minutes of explanation.
The Shadow had planned a simple process which would bring confusion to those who schemed in crime. Yet Clyde Burke had not guessed what was due, even though Clyde was a keen thinker. That, to Harry, was merely new proof that facts, though simple, were not necessarily obvious.
Harry felt secret elation as he noticed Clyde’s thoughtful perplexity. He felt, for the moment, that he had gained the edge in a bit of friendly rivalry. Soon, however, Clyde would know all that Harry knew.
That, oddly, would prove to be less than Harry Vincent supposed. For while his agents were studying the surfaces of crime development, The Shadow had delved into the depths. Where others guessed, The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ZERO HOUR
IT was a quarter of eleven when Clyde Burke stopped in front of a door on the second floor of the Weatherby Hotel. The reporter rapped for admittance. A voice called for him to enter. Clyde stepped into the living room of the only suite that the hotel boasted.
Rufus Dolthan was seated in an easy-chair. His kindly face seemed haggard; yet his restlessness was a sign that he still possessed stamina. Clyde noticed that the gray-haired man was clutching the arms of his chair, as though to suppress a maddened desire for hopeless action.
Roy Parrell looked chunky as he stood beside Dolthan’s chair. The detective’s wise face possessed a glumness. There was a third man in the room: Jay Goodling. The prosecutor’s youthful countenance seemed aged with worry.
“We are talking matters over, Mr. Burke,” informed Dolthan, in a wearied tone. “It is terrible, this suspense. As you know, Myra’s fate may be decided within a few hours. My word!” He turned appealingly to Parrell and Goodling. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“We can only wait, Mr. Dolthan,” returned Goodling. “I’m positive that this county still harbors those criminals — Kermal and his fellows — and I believe that in spite of Lanford’s letter. Remember, sir: Fred Lanford is my closest friend. This situation grieves me deeply.”
“But Kermal may murder Myra—”
“And Lanford also, if it suits him. They are both in grave danger, wherever they are.”
“And you, Parrell” — Dolthan spoke sharply to the detective — “you have failed me in this crisis. I have paid you well, because millions are at stake. Have you no suggestions whatever?”
Parrell shook his head. He, too, was becoming restless. Clyde could see desperation in the detective’s air. Idly, the reporter drew a new pipe and a package of fine smoking mixture from his pocket. He extended the package to Parrell.
“Fill up, old man,” suggested Clyde. “A good pipe smoke clears the cobwebs. That briar of yours is a sweet one.”
Parrell nodded and began to fumble in his pocket. His pipe was missing. Goodling made a remark.
“Your pipe is over in my office, Parrell,” he said. “I believe that you left it on my desk.”
“I’ll walk over with you while you get it,” put in Clyde. “How about it, Parrell?”
Clyde had filled his own pipe and was lighting it. The aroma of the tobacco brought a nod from Parrell. Clyde had chosen a mixture well filled with perique. The odor was effective.
TOGETHER, reporter and detective left the hotel and reached Goodling’s office. Parrell was silent during the walk; he stared glumly after turning on the lights and noting no pipe on the prosecutor’s desk.
“Goodling must have been seeing things,” he grumbled. “I wonder where I could have dropped that briar. Let’s see—”
“Didn’t you have it this afternoon?” queried Clyde. “When you were in the station wagon with Carter?”
“That’s right, Burke,” recalled Parrell. “The old bus is parked alongside of Mr. Dolthan’s limousine, isn’t it? Let’s take a look over there.”
They left the courthouse and approached the station wagon. Parrell produced a flashlight and looked about the front seat. He saw no sign of the pipe; but he noticed a space between the seat and the side of the car. He drew the seat forward.
“Here’s the pipe, all right,” exclaimed the detective. “But say — what’s this?”
The diary was lying below the pipe. Harry Vincent had planted them effectively. Parrell opened the book with his left hand while he held the flashlight with his right. A sudden cry came from his lips.
“This book is Myra Dolthan’s!” blurted the detective. “In the girl’s handwriting. Here, in Claig’s station wagon. She must have dropped it. Say, Burke didn’t Claig tell Carter he might have a tough time starting this old bus?”
“That’s what he said,” nodded Clyde. “I heard him.”
“But Carter had no trouble,” added Parrell. “Say, Burke — do you remember an old sedan up in Claig’s garage?”
“The one that was jacked up?”
“Yes. Did it look anything like the boat that Croy was in the night he snatched Lanford?”
“A whole lot, Parrell. But I didn’t think anything about it at the time. Claig’s sedan looked out of use. It could have been the car Croy was in though. Maybe it was the car.”
“Come on.” Parrell grabbed Clyde’s arm. “We’re hopping up to see Dolthan and the prosecutor! Pronto.”
They hurried into the hotel and took the stairs on the run. Parrell barged into Dolthan’s living room and thrust the diary into the hands of Myra’s uncle.