LATER that evening, Lamont Cranston checked out of the Laporte Hotel. He took a cab to the airport. His luggage was loaded aboard the autogiro. He took off — presumably for New York — and the windmilled ship climbed skyward.
Dull starlight gave some visibility of the ground below. The Shadow’s ship moved high above the town of Chanburg. The motor stilled; the giro descended like a silent monster from the heavens. It came to rest in the clearing which The Shadow had first chosen for a landing place.
A phantom form reappeared upon the hill near the house of Ezekiel Twinton. The building was dark when The Shadow encircled it. Faithful watch dogs, sleeping by their kennels, were undisturbed by the gliding figure that passed with less sound than the rippling breeze.
The Shadow reached the little spring house. Its closed door was sheathed with iron. Rusted nails, showing beneath the glimmer of the tiny flashlight, were proof that this place had not been entered. The Shadow moved away.
Later, his form appeared in the vicinity of the railroad. The Shadow reached the spot that had shown as a tiny square on his map. Passing through a thicket of furzelike bushes, he came to an abandoned shack. A simple clamp held the door shut; The Shadow opened it and entered.
Empty bottles, a few old newspapers — these were the objects that the little flashlight revealed upon the wooden floor. Small, dirty-encrusted windows were tightly closed. The Shadow moved out into darkness. He reached the railroad tracks. Here he paused.
Someone was puffing up the side of the embankment. Silent, The Shadow could trace the motion of a form that took to the ties, heading in the direction of the railroad station. The man’s pace was hasty. His stocky form was barely visible. The Shadow took up the trail.
The sound of a train approaching from far in the opposite direction spurred the prowler to more rapid stride. Close to the station, the man cut over behind a trio of side-tracked freight cars. He clambered in through one of the opened doors and waited. The Shadow merged with the darkened side of the car.
The roar of a train; a clanging bell. The Union Limited came blazing down the rails to halt at the little station. Its headlights, however, did not reveal either the prowler or The Shadow. Both were out of range. The Limited chugged away.
It was then that the chunky prowler dropped from an open door on the side of the car toward the station. The Shadow circled the end of the freight car and remained unseen. Zach Hoyler was on the lighted platform, preparing to push a baggage truck back to the station.
The squatty prowler paused; then clambered over the rails. He reached the platform just as Hoyler was unlocking the outside door of the baggage room. The Shadow, too, had moved forward. He had gained the shelter of a bush not a dozen feet from the baggage-room door.
The Shadow saw Zach Hoyler turn in momentary alarm at the sound of thudding footsteps. Then he observed the relieved grin that appeared upon the agent’s face. Zach had recognized the squatty, muffled prowler as the man stepped into the light.
The Shadow, too, saw the visage of the stranger; but his keen eyes viewed that square, pudgy-lipped countenance for the first time. The man whom The Shadow had followed was Perry Nubin, the railroad detective.
CHAPTER VIII
CORPUS DELICTI
“HELLO, bloodhound,” greeted Hoyler, from the baggage-room door. “When did you drop in?”
“Just now,” responded Nubin, gruffly. “Climbed off the Union Limited.”
“Riding in style, eh?” laughed the station agent. “I suppose you pulled the trick stuff again. Nobody knew you were aboard.”
“Right,” responded Nubin. “If any mug can prove I was on that train, I’ll hand him a ten spot.”
There was a touch of irony in this statement; one that The Shadow appreciated even though Zach Hoyler did not. The Shadow had learned the reason for Nubin’s hasty progress along the track. He knew that the detective had been prowling the fields near the Breck house. He also understood that Nubin wanted to create the definite impression that he had just arrived in the vicinity of Chanburg.
“What’s the idea this trip?” questioned Hoyler, while he lugged boxes into the baggage room. “Going to pull a search for that missing body?”
“Let the hicks look for it,” growled Nubin. “Just the same, that’s why I’m here. Making a routine check-up, that’s all. Guess you can tell me all I need to know.”
“That’s a real satisfaction,” stated Hoyler, grinning as he locked the door of the baggage room. “Any time anybody can tell you anything, it’s an event to remember.”
“Lay off the sarcasm. This is railroad business. I want to know about that search this afternoon.”
“Better talk to the sheriff. I’ve been anchored here ever since early in the afternoon.”
“I’m not worrying about the sheriff. I’m interested in railroad property. Did those yahoos come messing around the right of way?”
“I don’t think so.” Hoyler shook his head. “Some of them walked in along the tracks, but they looked like they were quitting the search.”
“What did they have to say?”
“Nothing that concerned the railroad. But they had a good idea whose body they were looking for.”
“Whose?”
“Grantham Breck’s.”
PERRY NUBIN cocked his head a trifle as he heard the station agent’s statement. His face, however, betrayed no surprise. The Shadow could study the detective’s heavy visage plainly from the bush.
“I thought the body was unidentified,” declared the railroad dick.
“So did I,” responded the station agent. “But the sheriff let the word slip out. Old Breck hasn’t been seen since last night. The body answered his description. So they’re looking for him.”
“Humph,” grunted Nubin. “Well, that don’t mean anything to me. I just wanted to know if there was any chance of the sheriff starting an argument with the Union Valley.”
“How could that come about?”
“Well” — the dick was speculative — “he might have figured that some hoboes had dropped off a freight and caused the trouble. That would make him figure that they went out of town the way they came.”
“Have you seen any bums along the line?” asked the agent.
“No,” replied Nubin, “but that’s why I’m asking you. I can’t watch this whole division all the time.”
“I haven’t seen any bums,” declared Hoyler, “but that doesn’t mean there’s none around. They wouldn’t walk into the station to buy a ticket or check their baggage. That’s a cinch.”
“Wise-cracking again, eh?” Nubin snorted the question. “Say, Hoyler, I know the ways of hoboes better than you do. I know they’d duck off through the woods when they came near a station. Of course you wouldn’t see any of them around.
“But those yap deputies might. Or they might figure there’d been some bums around. If they did, you’d be the first fellow they’d talk to. That’s why I’m asking what you heard.”
“No mention of any hoboes,” stated Hoyler, emphatically. “If there had been, you would have been here on an earlier train than the Limited.”
“How come?”
“Because I would have tapped the information through. I’m working for the Union Valley, too. I would have wired the word to the chief. He would have sent you down here on his own hook.”
“You’ve got more brains than I thought, Hoyler. Well, I guess there wasn’t any use in my coming here after all. I’ll go out on the Dairy Express. But don’t say anything about it to the train crew.”