Clyde muttered jokingly about the uselessness of a light at this point. He stopped suddenly as he heard a sound beside him. Lanford was opening the door.
“What’s up?” queried Clyde.
Lanford was halfway out of the car. He caught Clyde’s forearm in a warning grip. He whispered as he pointed to the sedan; the driver of the other car was looking up at the traffic light.
“See him?” queried Lanford, hoarsely. “Do you know who he is? That’s Croy! I’m going to get him!”
Clyde shot a look as Lanford scrambled to the street. The reporter saw the scarred face of the man in the sedan. He noted puffy lips; he realized that the driver of the other car must be a huge hulk of a fellow.
It was too late to stop Lanford. Clyde would have recommended a chase, not an attack against so powerful a fighter. But Lanford, angered by his previous defeat, had already grabbed the opportunity that he wanted. He was pouncing straight toward the sedan.
Croy heard him coming. As Lanford reached the front door of the sedan, the big man shot a wild, hurried look at his unexpected antagonist. He recognized Lanford as the young man from the previous night. Lanford sprang upon the running board and thrust his hands through the opened window, aiming for Croy’s throat.
Clyde saw a big fist flash. Lanford thumped back, staggering halfway to the coupe. Croy hurled the front door open and leaped from the sedan. Lanford piled forward to meet him.
CRYING encouragement to Lanford, Clyde leaped to the street and surged forward to aid. Had Lanford put up a real struggle, the reporter could have aided him. But Croy was too much for Lanford.
The huge man had delivered a second punch. Lanford was crumpling. He dropped away as Clyde arrived. Croy swung another powerful blow against Clyde’s chest. The reporter catapulted back against the coupe.
With a fierce snarl, Croy yanked open the rear door of the sedan. He scooped up Lanford’s form and hurled the groggy man within.
Slamming the rear door, he leaped to the wheel and pulled his own door shut. He swung the car about, to drive back along the street down which he had come.
Clyde Burke had regained his wind. Croy’s move gave the reporter opportunity. Running to the rear of the coupe, Clyde cut across in back and reached the sedan as it passed. He leaped to the running board beside the driver’s seat. He shot a quick fist to Croy’s jaw.
The scarred face took the punch unflinching. Croy’s left arm swung out and encased Clyde. Driving with his right, the big man gripped and battled with his left while he sped the sedan along the silent street, heading out of town.
Clyde was wiry; that fact made up for the lack of weight behind his punches. He proved tougher than Croy had expected. Though he needed his left hand to hold on to the door of the sedan, Clyde found opportunity to use his right. He pummeled Croy as thoroughly as he could.
Yet Clyde’s punches only glanced from the scarred face. Croy’s head was bobbing back and forth; his left arm warded off most of the reporter’s blows. Whirling along a serpentine course, the sedan was leaving the town behind.
Anything to stop the car. That was Clyde’s frenzied thought. He was willing to risk a wreck to end this mad course. At intervals he almost succeeded.
They were roaring along an outlying road. At one point, Croy jammed the brakes as the sedan swung to the right. The big car skidded; then found its course along a dirt road.
Clyde lost his grip as the sedan swung. Croy’s hamlike hand caught the back of the reporter’s neck. The big man guffawed; his puffy lips showed a grin as he swung his opponent back and forth.
Clyde’s light body wavered like a dummy figure; his feet clicked the running board while his hands made wild, unsuccessful grasps for the door.
The car slowed at another turn. Croy swung right. As he did, he flung his huge left arm outward. The heave precipitated Clyde a full dozen feet. The Shadow’s agent landed at the edge of the road and hurtled headforemost upon a grassy bank.
CLYDE rolled over and came up gasping. He rose unsteadily and looked around for the car. It was gone, past the turn in the road. To follow by foot would be useless.
Clyde thought of his coupe, three miles away, on the outskirts of Sheffield. He realized now that he should have followed in his car. He had made the same mistake as Lanford.
As on a previous night, Croy had conquered two combatants. He had overpowered Lanford and carried the man away as prisoner. He had pitched Clyde Burke from the side of his speeding car. Evidently he had considered the reporter unimportant.
Croy, despite his great strength, must be stupid. So Clyde decided as he started back along the road. For although the big man had carried off Lanford, he had left Clyde free to bear witness of the affray that had ended in the abduction of Fred Lanford.
Under the circumstances, Clyde had but one choice. He knew that he must go into Sheffield and report to Jay Goodling. The conference in the prosecutor’s office was already under way; for Clyde and Lanford would have arrived just at the time that Goodling had set.
Clyde Burke grunted huskily as he limped townward, still shaky from his battle with Croy. He was on his way to drop a bombshell into the conference at Goodling’s, so he thought.
But Clyde’s conjecture was wrong on that point. Already developments were taking place in Sheffield. Occurrences were due there that would prove more startling than Clyde’s experience with Croy.
CHAPTER VI
DEATH BEARS WITNESS
THE county prosecutor’s office was situated at the rear of the old Sheffield courthouse, a gloomy building that stood across the street from the Weatherby Hotel. It was there that Jay Goodling had arranged to hold an early evening discussion regarding the case in which he had figured so prominently.
Harry Vincent had met the prosecutor shortly after dinner. Clyde Burke had made the introduction. Immediately afterward, Goodling had headed for his office. The prosecutor’s actions had indicated that something was in the air.
Harry sensed new tension when he entered the courthouse to await Clyde’s arrival. There were three reporters present; with them, two men who looked like deputy sheriffs. In addition, Harry noted a lanky, white-haired man who wore a friendly smile as he chatted with the deputies. Harry heard one man address this worthy as Doctor Claig.
A closed door indicated the prosecutor’s office. The transom above it was tightly shut. Harry fancied that he could hear the buzz of voices from within. Evidently, Goodling was holding preliminary conferences with someone.
At last there came the click of a key. The door swung open. Goodling, his face inscrutable, waved for those waiting to enter. Harry walked in with the others. Goodling motioned them to chairs.
Harry, like the others, was quick to observe another man within the room. The stranger was a square-set individual, with dark hair and a wise face. He was seated beside Goodling’s desk.
“GENTLEMEN,” began Goodling as he took his chair at the desk, “this is Roy Parrell, a private detective from New York. He has come up from New York to present a theory regarding the mysterious house wherein Lanford and I had our strange adventure.
“Mr. Parrell arrived this afternoon. He has finally agreed to make his theory public, now that the search for the house has failed. He feels that such a statement would be to the interest of the client who sent him here.”
Goodling looked toward Parrell, who nodded; then glanced about the group.
“Which man,” he asked, “is your friend Fred Lanford? I think that he should be present to hear my statement, prosecutor.”
“That’s right,” rejoined Goodling. “Lanford should be here. Didn’t I hear that reporter, Burke, say that he was going out to get him?”