“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.” The word, though it came from Cranston’s lips, was issued in the shuddering whisper of The Shadow.
“Report from Marsland,” informed Burbank. “Frederick Thorne went out more than one hour ago. He has not returned. Shelburne has not been at the house tonight.”
“Report received.”
“Report from Vincent. Bryce Towson has been at home since five o’clock this afternoon. He is there now. Vincent has seen him through the window of the front dining room and through a window of his upstairs study.”
“Shelburne?” hissed The Shadow, as Burbank paused.
“Shelburne has not been at Towson’s,” responded Burbank. “Vincent has seen no sign of him.”
“Report received.”
“No report from Burke.”
The Shadow clicked receiver on hook. This ended the conversation. Thus, while he awaited Herbert Whilton, the master sleuth had checked upon the other parties concerned. Frederick Thorne was free from observation. Bryce Towson was at home. Shelburne was not accounted for; it was possible that he had called either Towson or Thorne or both — by telephone.
Ten minutes after nine. It was obvious that Whilton must have been detained in the city; for his home was less than a half an hour’s ride from Manhattan. At quarter past nine, Lamont Cranston was still seated in the chair; but his eyes were no longer toward the fire. They were focused on the door.
AT precisely nine-seventeen, the door opened. Herbert Whilton, wheezy in his apologetic tone, came in with outstretched hand.
“Sorry, Cranston!” he exclaimed. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I was dining at the Ritz — alone as usual — and I fell asleep over my coffee. I must be getting old; indeed, I must.”
The old philanthropist took a chair and warmed his hands before the fire. No statement came from Lamont Cranston; it was Herbert Whilton, himself, who took up the all important subject.
“About this invention of Fallow’s,” remarked the philanthropist, in a serious tone. “It worries me. I have been thinking — since last night — that there is further danger ahead.
“Did you read this afternoon’s paper? About the death of Talbot? I read a final report, at dinner, and I see that the detective on the case believes that Talbot was slain protecting Dyke.
“Terrible! Terrible! A sad end for a faithful servant. I should hate to think of such a horrible death coming to any of my trusted servitors. Particularly Randham. He was the man who admitted you tonight. He would fight to the last, if my life were at stake — as Talbot fought for Loring Dyke.”
Whilton’s fixed smile had faded with the old man’s seriousness. In contrast, a faint smile had appeared upon the lips of Lamont Cranston. Well did the visitor know that Talbot had been a traitor — not a faithful servant.
“Come, Cranston,” suggested Whilton, seeking to turn to a more cheerful subject. “Let me show you my library. It has been entirely redecorated. I intend to begin placing the books tonight.”
The old man led the way from the smoking room. They crossed the hall and came to an open door; beyond it, a room some forty feet in length, the walls lined with heavy oak bookcases. Although the large racks were solid, the first shelf did not appear until nearly two feet above the floor. Whilton commented on that fact.
“Stooping is troublesome,” he remarked. “So these bookcases have solid basis. These boxes” — he pointed to opened crates upon the floor — “contain the books which are to be placed. I intend to begin the work tonight.”
Randham entered while Whilton was speaking. The old man turned to the servant and made a gesture toward the floor.
“Are these all the boxes?” he demanded, in a querulous tone. “It seems to me that half of them are lacking.”
“Others are being brought, sir,” explained Randham. “Two more loads, from the storage house. I suppose they will come in tomorrow. Then there are those odd boxes—”
“Ah, yes. The ones that are coming by express. You see, Cranston” — Randham turned to his guest — “I stored all of my volumes before I went to Florida. I did not have them brought back until these bookcases were completed.”
“I see.” Cranston’s gaze was on the bookcases. “Those shelves are quite deep, are they not? And high?”
“To accommodate the larger volumes, sir,” interposed Randham. “Some of Mr. Whilton’s books have huge bindings.”
“Randham thinks of everything,” acknowledged Whilton. “It was his idea to raise the bottom shelves. I rely greatly upon Randham. You always remember, don’t you, Randham?”
“I try to, sir,” responded the servant, solemnly. “I nearly forgot something tonight though. Your appointment with Doctor Ayres. You are to go to his office at ten o’clock, Mr. Whilton.”
“Ah, yes!” The old man nodded. “Call Halliwell at once. Tell him to have the car here promptly. I am sorry, Cranston, I must go out for fully an hour. I shall be back at eleven, if you care to wait.”
Randham’s solemn face displayed traces of nervousness. Cranston’s eyes observed the fact. It was plain that the servant hoped the guest would go.
“Sorry,” came Cranston’s quiet rejoinder. “I must be going back to the city. My car is outside. Suppose I see you tomorrow, Whilton. We shall have more time to talk together.”
“Very well,” agreed the old philanthropist. Then, to Randham, he added: “I shall be back at eleven. Do not wait up for me. I can place the books alone.”
“Yes, sir,” said the servant, as he turned to leave the room. “Be sure to begin with the first box — at the corner shelf. The books are in their proper order, sir.”
Randham left. A few minutes later, he returned to announce that the car was ready. Whilton donned hat and coat; Cranston did likewise. Together, they left the house. Halliwell was waiting with Whilton’s limousine. Cranston stepped into his own machine.
THE cars rolled from the drive. Whilton’s turned east; Cranston’s west. Through the speaking tube that led to the chauffeur, Cranston’s quiet voice ordered:
“Cobalt Club, Stanley.”
The limousine rolled onward. In the darkness of the back seat, Cranston’s hands opened a bag that lay on the floor. Garments of black came forth; cloak slipped over the passenger’s shoulders; a slouch hat settled on his head. Automatics clicked as they slid beneath the cloak.
The limousine stopped at the spot where the side lane met the through highway. The door opened.
Stanley did not hear it, nor did he see the phantom form that glided from the car. The door shut softly, just as the chauffeur pressed the accelerator.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. A blackened form, beneath the darkness of a hedge beside the lane, he stood until the limousine had swung from view. Turning, he began to retrace the course to Whilton’s house, a quarter mile away.
Herbert Whilton would be absent from ten to eleven. After his return, he intended to be alone in his library. The Shadow could see the positive approach of a waiting menace.
A trap for Whilton? Such could be laid in the interval between now and eleven o’clock. The stage was set for a perfect arrangement; for a clever snare like those that had enmeshed Meldon Fallow and Loring Dyke.
The Shadow was seeking to beat the brain that dealt in murder. He was looking for an opportunity to forestall doom before it fell. The chance, apparently, had arrived. The Shadow was responding.
If the master sleuth had divined the plot correctly, he would meet and frustrate crime tonight. While the law followed false trails, The Shadow was prepared to deal with the minions of Charg!
CHAPTER XV. CRIME FORESTALLED
RANDHAM was alone in Herbert Whilton’s library. Ten minutes had elapsed since the departure of Whilton and Cranston. The servant, listening, became suddenly alert. He tiptoed into the hall and peered up a flight of stairs.