“Maybe I will. Not tonight, though. I’m walking the tracks tonight.”
“Been demoted?”
“Say — you’re wise, aren’t you? Listen, Hoyler. If you want to keep this job of yours, you’d better show less lip. I could ease you out of it.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I guess you could by planting a bottle of hooch in this table drawer. I wouldn’t put it past you, either. But you won’t catch me off duty long enough to pull a stunt like that.”
With this bitter assertion, Zach Hoyler arose and went through the inside door into the baggage room. Perry Nubin stood by the ticket window, an angry snarl on his lips. Then, with clenched fists, the dick turned and strode from the station.
As he had told Hoyler, the detective started off along the tracks. He headed in the direction of the grade crossing. But he did not go far along the right of way. Skidding down the embankment, he cut across fields toward the house now owned by Elbert Breck.
A FEW hours later, an autogiro dropped from the sky and landed in the clearing on the hill. The figure that emerged from the ship was as vague as a living specter. Silently it moved through the woods; then traveled toward the house below the hill.
A light was burning in a window. It indicated Harry Vincent’s room. The figure of The Shadow appeared, looming inward from the window. Gloved fingers opened an envelope. Burning eyes perused a coded report that turned blank.
The Shadow departed, His vague form circled the silent house. Tonight, however, The Shadow detected no sounds or tokens of a prowler. Perry Nubin had left a short while before The Shadow’s return.
CHAPTER X
THE SHADOW LISTENS
SHERIFF TIM FOREY was seated in his office. This room was located on the first floor of a little building just off the main street of Chanburg. It had once housed a shoe shop. Battered doors, ramshackle windows vied with the furnishings. For Tim Forey’s chairs and desk looked like relics of the early nineties.
It was evening — two nights after the discovery of the Luger pistol in Grantham Breck’s study. The death gun was at present lying upon Forey’s desk. The sheriff was discussing it with the prosecutor.
“I’m keeping the pistol here,” declared Forey. “Wired New York yesterday. An expert’s coming up here. Thought that would save time, Mr. Trobers.”
“A good idea,” decided the prosecutor.
“Do you know” — Forey arose and walked over by the half-opened window — “this case is getting mighty tough. It’s beat everything that’s hit this locality.”
“How about the Dobbin gang?”
“That bunch of bank robbers, seven years ago? That was tough all right, but it was different. That was a man hunt. We shot down the whole outfit.”
“And they dropped a few of the local boys, too.”
“Yes. That was bad. But there was no mystery about it. Those birds were fugitives from justice. Hiding out hereabouts. Supposed to have a load of swag with them. But that was the bunk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mighty sure. There was a bunch of them came in on the Union Valley. Some of them dropped off here. Dobbin was with that part of the gang. The rest kept on — never heard of again — and it’s likely they had the swag.”
“I see.”
“We learned Dobbin’s crowd was about. We fought it out with them. Up on the hill, over by the railroad. I shot down Dobbin myself. Say” — Forey chuckled — “it’s lucky that Ezekiel Twinton wasn’t living up on the hill at the time. He’d have gone goofy.”
“I suppose so,” nodded the prosecutor. “The Dobbin gang set fire to the old Pastely farmhouse, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. It was empty at the time and they made a stand there until we drove them out. But it’s funny, Mr. Trobers, you mentioning that fight with the bank robbers and my remembering that they had come in on the Union Valley.”
“How so?”
“There was a fellow in here this morning. A railroad detective. His name was Perry Nubin. Told me that if I thought any marauders were about, to be sure and let him know. Said he’d cleaned all the bums off this division of the Union Valley.”
“What did you reply?”
“That we were looking for one smart guy — not a gang. I showed him the Luger pistol. He said it was a right good idea to have the expert come up from New York.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Nubin said he was going over to another division; that’s why he dropped in. Said he wanted to be sure everything was right; that he wouldn’t be back here for a week or more. But he looked to me like he was all talk; and I found out later that I was right. I asked Zach Hoyler about him.”
“You mean the station agent?”
“Yeah. He lives here in town. I met him when he was going on duty; I wanted to make sure that this fellow Nubin really worked for the Union Valley. Zach told me Nubin is trying to make a big hit with the company. He was dropped by the B and R; that was a come-down, so he’s trying to impress his new boss with his efficiency.”
“The mentality of a railroad detective,” remarked the prosecutor, “is sometimes confined to devising new ways of pitching riders from freight trains.”
“You said it, prosecutor,” chuckled Forey. “Those legal terminals you use are pips.”
The prosecutor smiled as he arose from his chair. Tim Forey pulled down the window and started to close the catch. It was broken, so he shrugged his shoulders. He dropped the Luger in a desk drawer and pushed the drawer shut.
“I’m watching things out at Breck’s,” he remarked. “Got a good reason to have deputies there now. If young Elbert tries anything sneaky, they’ll nab him. I’m having them watch Craven, too.”
“This man Vincent?”
“He’s all right. Maybe the others are, too. I’m keeping an eye on the outside — that is, for suspects. If Ezekiel Twinton would only get over his jimjams, I’d feel better.”
“What’s his trouble?”
“Thinks there’s prowlers as usual. Only they never get near the house, so he says. I think the guy’s cuckoo. I’d be, if I lived in a place with only a deaf servant and a chink cook who can’t talk English.”
SHERIFF and prosecutor had shifted to the door. Forey turned out the light. They departed; there was a click of the sheriff’s key that denoted the locking of the door. Then silence. After that, the unlocked window moved upward.
A swish sounded in the sheriff’s office. A tiny light glimmered on the desk. A gloved hand opened the drawer and removed the Luger. The Shadow studied the weapon.
The master of darkness had listened in on the sheriff’s conversation. He was here to examine the death gun. His left hand arranged the flashlight on the desk; his right glove slid clear of his hand. Producing a sheet of paper, The Shadow began to make notations in bluish ink.
Written thoughts that faded as the ink dried. The Shadow was considering the history of this weapon. His ideas would have amazed Tim Forey. The sheriff, balked by circumstances, had made no deductions whatever.
In Grantham Breck’s possession.
This was the first statement that faded. The Shadow knew that the old lawyer, prowling up the hill side, would have gone armed. He had taken the Luger with him for protection.
Struggle. Murder.
These two words told what had happened. Grantham Breck had encountered an enemy who had overpowered him. In the fight, the antagonist had gained the Luger pistol. He had slain the lawyer with the weapon.
Keys. Body. Replacement.
The first word told of the murderer’s finding. The second, his immediate plan of putting Grantham Breck’s body in the smoke house. The third referred to the gun. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s lips.