Sweeping along the hall, The Shadow had neared the fire tower. With one quick movement, he drew off hat and cloak. He hissed an order; Cliff Marsland stepped into view. The Shadow thrust his black garb into his agents arms. The automatics accompanied the cloak and hat.
Cliff turned and headed down the fire tower. Harry Vincent, at the end of the side passage, had also heard The Shadow’s command. He took to the stairway. The agents were hurrying back to their coupe. The Shadow, again in the guise of Lamont Cranston, was ready to return to Messler’s apartment.
He chose the door through the kitchen. Carrying the revolver that Messler had given him, he came through the dining nook to find Cardona and Markham covering the last of the raiders. Messler and Claverly had also drawn their revolvers. They were standing by.
CLAVERLY’S suavity had returned. There was nothing in his manner to show disappointment because the raid had failed. He was working with the law, like Messler and Cranston. Safe with the winning side, he showed no sign of trepidation.
Despite the number of raiders, there was one absentee. That man was Hatch Rosling. Apparently, he had left this job to lesser crooks. Gorillas were sullen; the only one who might speak was Mike Tocson, glowering wounded from the floor.
With prisoners guarded by Markham, Messler, Claverly and Cranston, Joe Cardona turned to quiz the crippled mobleader. Tocson had crawled along the floor and was glaring upward in defiance. Before Cardona could question him, Tocson’s left arm came up.
A revolver glittered. It was Tocson’s own weapon. He had reclaimed it from the floor. Finger on trigger, the mobleader aimed for Joe.
Then came two reports. One was the crackle of the .32 that Messler had given Cranston. It came first. It dropped Tocson’s arm and stopped the rogue’s shot.
Then came the burst of Cardona’s revolver. It was a belated shot. But Cranston’s prompt aim had saved Joe’s life. The detective fired instinctively, even though Tocson’s arm was dropping. The mobleader sprawled, dying. His chance to speak was ended.
Two hours later, a blue light glimmered in the corner of a black-walled room. The Shadow was in his sanctum. His soft laugh sounded through the room.
As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had received congratulations for his effort in behalf of the law. Presumably, he had been trapped with other guests; like Messler and Claverly, he had been ready at the finish.
The mysterious arrival and departure of The Shadow was unexplained. Crooks — dead, wounded and captured — had been removed from Messler’s apartment. The jewels were safe, with police on guard. Tomorrow, they would be put in a safe-deposit box.
Guests had departed, among them Milton Claverly. The young man — like Lamont Cranston — had been commended for his aid. He was going back to Torburg. Nothing had been said that might have connected him with the frustrated robbery.
The Shadow’s hand began to write beneath the light. Coded words, in ink of vivid blue. Deft fingers folded the completed message. Again, The Shadow laughed. He had completed instructions to his agent, Harry Vincent.
For The Shadow sensed that crime was not ended. Hatch Rosling was still at large. Milton Claverly had left unmolested. While those two were active, The Shadow intended to keep watch. The paths of Claverly and Rosling had crossed aboard the Laurentic. Perhaps those paths would cross again.
Cliff Marsland would seek traces of Rosling in New York; Harry Vincent would watch Claverly in Torburg. For The Shadow could foresee another meeting between Rosling and Claverly. When that time came, wherever the place, crime would be concerned.
CHAPTER V
THE LAWYER SPEAKS
“WELCOME back to Torburg, Milton.”
The speaker was a firm-faced, gray-haired man who had risen from behind a mahogany desk. His grip was forcible as he shook hands with Milton Claverly. This was Louis Vandrow, the Torburg attorney who represented the Claverly estate.
Seating himself opposite the lawyer, Milton lighted a cigarette and began to smoke while he waited for Vandrow to speak again. The attorney was busy with a file of documents which evidently pertained to the estate.
The window of the office gave forth a good view of Torburg. A town of scattered dwellings, the community appeared to be enjoying an afternoon siesta. Milton Claverly smiled as he studied the vista that the window offered.
Torburg had no railroad. Hence the town had spread out in a natural fashion. The central district was nestled in a depression that lay between sloping hills. The building that housed this office was on the outskirts.
Rising, Milton strolled to the window and viewed the town for a beginning. He saw the old hotel that had existed since stagecoach days. He noted the cluster of stores that he remembered since childhood. He turned his gaze toward residences that were situated among trees. He could not see his father’s house, for it was past a slope; but on the intervening rise of ground he observed a structure that was new to him.
THIS was a rounded tower, some forty feet in height. It was built of stone; and its walls were tapering. There was a door at the bottom; but the tower was windowless until near the top. There, Milton saw an eight-sided belfry, which had slits for openings. The tower was capped by a large, octagonal cupola that topped off the belfry.
“Admiring the bell-tower?”
The question came from Vandrow, who had finished with the papers. A smile showed on the lawyer’s rugged face. Milton nodded.
“Who built it?” he questioned.
“Your father,” replied Vandrow.
“He built that crazy tower?” Milton shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “No wonder he lost so much money. What was his idea?”
“A gift to the town,” replied Vandrow. “There had been talk of a monument upon that slope. Impossible suggestions were made regarding it. So your father settled the matter by building the bell-tower for the community.”
“Why did he pick on a bell-tower?”
“Some whim, I suppose. Your father was a man of original ideas. He had made money. It was his right to spend it as he chose.”
“Maybe,” grunted Milton. “But he might have left more to his heirs than he did. Don’t let that statement mislead you, Mr. Vandrow” — Milton paused as he added the additional comment — “because I’m not thinking of myself alone. Whether or not I shared in the estate would have made no difference.
“It’s simply my opinion that a bell-tower like that one is a senseless idea. I’m not saying that to criticize my father; I merely mention it to back up my theory that he must have slipped a bit during his later years.”
“You are wrong, Milton,” returned Vandrow, shaking his head, “entirely wrong. You were not here when your father died. You had not seen him for a great many years. I assure you that your father, David Claverly, was mentally alert up to the time of his death.”
“Yet he built bell-towers?”
“He built one bell-tower. It was more sensible than some stupid monument to which he would have been asked to subscribe. It remains, at least, as a unique memorial. I, for one, approved of its construction.”
“All right,” laughed Milton, “I’ll vote for the bell-tower. It’s not surprising, though, that I didn’t like it when I first saw it. Father and I never agreed on anything.”
“So I recall,” mused Vandrow. “Yet you and he had real understanding. He often remarked on that fact to me. He said that he had made his way through the world and that he wanted you to do the same. That was why you left Torburg.”
“He staked me,” stated Milton. “Gave me fifty thousand dollars. I shot the works. Spent it inside of a year. After that — well, I had to battle my own way. I was too proud to come back home.”