The Shadow was in his sanctum. He, too, was marking points in the neighborhood of Sheffield and Westbury. The Shadow, like Harry Vincent, had questions that needed answering. His whispered laugh betokened that fact.
A pointing finger touched the town marked Westbury. It traced a northeast course toward Sheffield, following the line of the old road. The Shadow’s finger stopped.
Although Goodling and Lanford had started their journey from Sheffield. the spot of their strange adventure had been nearer the town of Westbury. Furthermore, Westbury was larger than Sheffield, despite the fact that the latter town was the county seat.
Long hands folded the map. The bluish light clicked off. The Shadow’s laugh sounded in the darkness. Shivering tones betokened his urge for new adventure. When silence reigned within the black-walled room, The Shadow had departed.
Like his agents, he was faring forth to the mysterious terrain from which a house had vanished. But he had chosen to make his starting point the town of Westbury, in preference to Sheffield. Burke and Vincent could cover that town for the present.
IT was late in the afternoon when Harry Vincent strolled into the lobby of the Weatherby Hotel, the old-fashioned inn that constituted Sheffield’s sole hotel. He learned that Clyde Burke was in a room on the third floor. Harry went up and rapped on the door. Hearing a call to enter, he stepped in to find Clyde seated at a typewriter.
“Stuff for the Classic,” chuckled Clyde. “Close the door, Harry. I’ve got your credentials. I thought you’d be in on the train I just heard chugging in.”
“Anything new on the house?” questioned Harry.
“Not a thing,” replied Clyde, seriously. “I’ve talked with Goodling. He won’t go into further details until this evening. He’s holding a conference in his office.”
“Do you think he has learned something?”
“Yes. But not about the house. He’s still mystified on that point. The place has vanished.”
“Have you talked with Lanford?”
“I’m going to. Before he comes into the conference. He lives out in the country and he’s still sleeping off his dopey jag. They must have given him a bigger dose than they did Goodling.”
“Have they searched for the house today?”
“Sure. They started at Sunday noon. Here it is, Monday afternoon, and they’ve just finished.”
Harry considered. Clyde watched him rub his chin. The reporter laughed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” declared Clyde. “They ought to have looked along the other roads. Well, they did; but they had no luck.”
“No houses?”
“A few. But occupied by persons whom they knew, except for some empties. They knew who the owners of the empty houses were, and they’ve checked on them. All pass muster.”
Clyde produced a road map. He had dotted it at various points. The marks indicated houses.
“Here’s the old Gallivan house,” he stated. “Been empty for two years; but it’s three miles up the Westbury road. Goodling is sure that he and Lanford couldn’t have traveled that far. One mile was about the limit.
“This house is empty. An artist named Brooks left it a month ago, to make a trip to California. But it’s not on the old Westbury road. It’s on one of those other roads. See? The first one past the Westbury road.
“Same thing with this house. It was owned by a farmer named Buckley. It’s on the first road before you reach the old Westbury road; and it was burned out last fall. The big point, Harry, is that Goodling and Lanford both saw the old sign that points to Westbury. It’s there, big as life. I went down to look at it this afternoon.”
“But what about tire marks?” questioned Harry. “Those ought to tell something. Those dirt roads must have been mighty muddy.”
“Too muddy,” replied Clyde. “They all led down into the paved road. They were raging torrents on Saturday night. Completely washed out by morning. Nothing left to go by.
“You can take it or leave it, Harry. The cold truth is that a house is missing. It’s a bigger problem than a stolen bass drum. It has me guessing, just like everyone else.”
HARRY was about to speak when the telephone bell rang. Clyde picked up the telephone from beside his typewriter. As he answered, Harry saw a steady expression appear upon the reporter’s face.
Briefly, in short sentences, Clyde reported the same facts that he had given Harry. His words were prompted by questions that he heard across the wire. When the call was ended, Clyde hung up and nodded as he looked toward Harry
“It will pass as a long-distance call from the Classic,” explained Clyde. “I talked like I was giving dope for a story. But that call was from a place nearer than New York.”
“Westbury?” guessed Harry
Again Clyde nodded. Those quiet tones that he had heard could have come from only one person: The Shadow.
“I’m to see Lanford,” stated Clyde. “I’ll introduce you to Goodling after dinner; then I’ll cut out and meet Lanford before he comes in to the conference. You can stick with Goodling.”
Clyde dug into a suitcase to obtain Harry’s credentials. Harry stood looking from the window, studying the town of Sheffield, beneath the darkening, clouded afternoon sky. A smile showed upon Harry’s lips.
For Harry could guess what The Shadow’s work would be while his agents were engaged in checking on developments here. Harry’s hunch was that The Shadow was planning a prompt search for the vanished house wherein Jay Goodling and Fred Lanford had encountered strange adventure.
Would The Shadow succeed in that strange quest that had baffled scores of searchers? Harry Vincent believed it probable; yet he could not fathom what The Shadow’s course could be. For in all his service as an agent of The Shadow, Harry Vincent had never encountered a case with so strange a beginning as this.
Men who knew the ground could offer no answer to the disappearance of a house with all its furnishings. The Shadow, here for the first time, following only the reports of others, was apparently faced by an impossible task.
So Harry Vincent reasoned; but his own arguments failed. Greater even than reason was Harry’s confidence in The Shadow’s amazing power of deduction.
CHAPTER IV
THE VANISHED HOUSE
ALL lay quiet along the old Westbury road. Sultry afternoon had brought a pall to the countryside where searchers had given up their vain hunt for a vanished house. Though an hour still remained until sunset, the features of the landscape appeared hazy and obscure.
There was motion at the side of the dirt road. Steadily, yet almost unnoticeably, a figure was moving along the highway. It was that of a tall individual who wore a dark suit. His chiseled features were scarcely discernible in that modulated light.
The stroller was hatless. He was carrying a flexible briefcase. He might have been some chance wayfarer taking this route between Westbury and Sheffield. Actually, he was here with a more definite purpose. The Shadow was going over the vainly searched terrain.
Walking along the old road from Westbury, The Shadow had spied various houses. All were ones which had already been investigated by the local authorities. Casual surveys had satisfied The Shadow that none were of interest.
The Shadow’s goal was the spot where the old road met the paved one. He wanted to see the point at which Jay Goodling and Fred Lanford had turned into the path of weird adventure. The Shadow’s pace had quickened; it slowed as he passed a slight bend. Directly ahead was the main highway.
Conspicuous at the junction point was the sign that pointed to Westbury. The white post and large-lettered placard stood straight upward. As The Shadow surveyed the sign he was impressed by its total absence of tilt.