Croy extinguished the lamps. Standing by the door, he blocked most of the dim hallway light. Jay Goodling, slowly recovering, heard footsteps as they returned. Trying to rise, Goodling saw Croy enter. Then he felt himself in the big servant’s clutch.
Something was happening to Lanford. Figures had entered; Goodling saw the flicker of a flashlight and caught the tones of whispered voices. He struggled against Croy; the big man’s grasp tightened.
His head thrust back, Goodling could see nothing but the ceiling. He felt hands tugging at his coat sleeve; then came the rip of the shirt sleeve beneath it. Again, he fought with Croy. It was useless.
The flashlight blinked on Jay Goodling’s bare arm. Croy’s grip tightened. A hand appeared in the light, bearing a hypodermic syringe. The needle jabbed deep into Goodling’s flesh.
Croy still gripped the victim as others stole from the darkened room. Then the servant’s hold relaxed. Jay Goodling had subsided. Croy arose and went to the hall. He nodded to Kermal, who was standing there alone. Kermal pointed to the front door.
The servant returned to the parlor and reappeared with Lanford’s limp form over his shoulder. Kermal unbolted the front door. Croy carried Lanford out into the driving rain. A few minutes later, he returned, entered the parlor and picked up Goodling.
Croy carried the prosecutor out into the darkness. Kermal chuckled as he bolted the front door. Listening, the shaggy-haired man heard the roar of a motor. Croy had started Goodling’s coupe. The car was backing out into the din road.
However Kermal had hoped to deal with these intruders, the fight had definitely forced him to one plan. Goodling and Lanford had been overpowered in the fray. Both were doped. Croy had removed them at his master’s order.
Whatever Kermal’s plans might be, the bulky man seemed satisfied with his procedure. His chuckle sounded in the gloomy hall as he crossed the uncarpeted floor toward the stairway beyond that living room in which a man lay dead.
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW ARRIVES
IT was morning in Manhattan. A quiet, round-faced man was seated at an office desk. From beyond his window loomed the sky line of the city; but the view did not concern this worker. The round-faced man was studying a map which showed the terrain about the town of Sheffield.
A rap sounded at the door. The man at the desk folded the map then gave an order to enter. A stenographer appeared.
“Mr. Vincent is calling,” said the girl. “Shall I tell him to come in, Mr. Mann?”
“Certainly,” responded Mann. “At once.”
A few minutes later, a clean-cut young man was facing Mann in the inner office. Vincent’s appearance was one that denoted an active temperament quite a contrast to the lethargic expression of Mann’s chubby visage.
Yet both were workers in the same service. Rutledge Mann and Harry Vincent were agents of The Shadow. Mann, an investment broker, was a contact who relayed orders to the active aids such as Harry.
“You have seen this clipping?” inquired Mann. “It appeared in this morning’s newspaper.”
“I saw it,” smiled Harry, as he viewed the item that Mann passed him, “but I passed it up as something of a hoax. Two men reporting a murder in an isolated house, only to find that the building had vanished.”
“Read more closely,” suggested Mann. “You will note that one of the two men was the county prosecutor.”
“That’s right,” acknowledged Harry, studying the clipping. “Say — that puts a new light on the case, doesn’t it? This ought to have been front page stuff, Mann.”
“It will be soon,” stated the broker. “The New York newspapers are sending men to Sheffield. Clyde Burke is going for the Classic.”
“Burke has already supplied further details,” stated Mann, unfolding the map on his desk. “So I suggest, Vincent, that you listen to my full account. I can amplify facts that the newspapers merely skimmed over in the first story. Like yourself, they took it as a hoax at the start.
“Here” — Mann pointed to the map — “is the town of Sheffield. A paved road runs southward from Sheffield, then curves west and reaches Westbury, some dozen miles distant. You will notice that there are dirt roads going to the right from the main highway. One of them — this one — is important. It is the old road to Westbury.”
Harry nodded.
“Saturday night, after midnight,” resumed Mann, “Jay Goodling, county prosecutor and his friend, Fred Lanford, were riding along the paved road. They were going southward, from Sheffield to Westbury, when a man named Turner flagged them with a lantern. Somewhere in this neighborhood.”
Mann tapped the map with his pencil. Harry watched while the investment broker made a mark, then moved the pencil to a point about three miles south.
“This is Roaring Creek,” he explained. “The bridge had gone out during the heavy storm. Turner had hiked up to the road to stop other cars. He was heading into Sheffield. Goodling and Lanford decided to take the old Westbury road, which turns off before the bridge.”
HARRY noted four roads going to the right between Mann’s pencil mark and the creek. Only one, the third, was a through dirt highway. It was the old road to Westbury.
“Goodling and Lanford found the old Westbury road,” explained Mann. “They identified it by the conspicuous sign that marks it. Driving up the road, they discovered a house. They entered, in the hope of finding a telephone.
“The servant who admitted them was named Croy. They also encountered a man named Daggart, ostensibly a secretary, whose arm was in a sling, indicating a recent wound. The supposed owner of the house, whom they likewise met, was named Kermal.”
“What about the girl?” questioned Harry, holding up the clipping. “This story deals chiefly with the mysterious brunette, who vanished along with the house. Talks about the whole affair as if it had been a pipe dream.”
“The girl,” replied Mann, “was the person who mentioned the names of the others. Her name, however, was not learned. She advised Goodling and Lanford to leave.”
“But instead, they snooped around and found the body?”
“Yes. The report is correct. They found a dead man, who had been shot through the heart. Goodling and Lanford started a fight. They were overpowered. Goodling recalls that he was jabbed with a hypodermic needle. Lanford was too groggy to remember.
“That happened after midnight, Saturday. Shortly before noon, Sunday, Goodling and Lanford were found, half asleep, in the coupe. The car was about fifty yards from the washed-out bridge.
“As county prosecutor, Goodling has extraordinary powers. As soon as he was sufficiently roused to remember his story coherently, he ordered a search for the house. A dozen men scoured the old Westbury road. They failed to find the building at all.”
“There are no houses along that road?”
“There are a dozen. But all are occupied by persons who are well known in the vicinity. Goodling and Lanford spoke of an extravagantly furnished living room. None of the houses can match that description. The report, Vincent, is not exaggerated. The mystery house vanished over night.”
“But suppose that—”
Mann smiled as he held up his hand. He drew a watch from his pocket and nodded as he consulted the time.
“You can catch the one o’clock train for Sheffield,” he stated. “You will find Burke there, representing the Classic. He will introduce you as a representative of the National Press Association. He will supply you with credentials.”
WHILE Harry Vincent was on his way from Rutledge Mann’s office, a singular event was taking place in another portion of Manhattan. A bluish light was gleaming in the corner of a black-walled room. Long white hands were unfolding a map that resembled Mann’s.