A vivid flash accompanied the burst of a gun. The shot came from the spot where the men were struggling. Harry heard a hoarse cry; then a groan. With an instinctive shout, The Shadow’s agent sprang forward, raising his revolver.
Harry did not use his flashlight, for he did not want to betray his exact position. Hence his action produced immediate effect. Footsteps rustled in the grass. As Harry paused, he heard panting. Men were scurrying off through the darkness. This was Harry’s cue.
The Shadow’s agent clicked his flashlight and sent its beam traveling in a wide sweep. For the fraction of a second, the glare revealed one speeding form; then another. But when Harry tried to focus the light on either spot, he found that he was too late. Though he had caught a flash of two prowlers, Harry knew that there were three at least. Still approaching the scene of the conflict, he moved the light more slowly. He discovered no one.
A groan from the ground ahead. Convinced that no sniper could be close enough to pick him with a pot shot, Harry advanced to the spot where he had heard the sound. He turned his light upon a huddled figure. He recognized the face of Ezekiel Twinton.
THE house owner was the person who had received the shot. Twinton’s staring eyes were glassy. Harry knew that the man was dying. He spoke to Twinton. Lips moved in response; but they uttered no sound. With a gasp, Twinton rolled upon his face.
Blood stained the shirt as Harry now saw it. Twinton had been shot in the back. His revolver was lying on the ground beside him. Again, Harry swept his light about, hoping that he might spot the killer. He discovered no one.
Commotion from the porch. Quickly extinguishing his light, Harry gazed in that direction. Two men had arrived there: Dunmore, the old deaf servant, was standing with Lang Sook, the cook. The Chinaman was babbling a lingo that Dunmore could not have understood even if he had heard it.
Barks and growls had arisen from about the house. The dogs were excited. Yet Harry, crouched in the darkness beside Ezekiel Twinton’s body, was waiting. He had no purpose other than his indignation at this deal of death. He wanted to get the murderer. Neither Dunmore nor Lang Sook had nerve enough to venture forth. The pair went back into the house.
Still Harry lingered. Then came a hiss. Startled, Harry listened. Then he heard the whisper of The Shadow. The silent master had arrived too late to witness crime. He wanted the facts that Harry could give him.
“Report.”
In a low, tense voice, Harry told all he knew. He sensed that his information was vague. Moreover, nearly ten minutes had elapsed since the tragedy. The Shadow, however, made no comment while Harry spoke. The single word that he uttered at the end of Harry’s story was a command:
“Return.”
Harry nodded. Pocketing his revolver, he arose and went away through the darkness. He had begun to realize his own folly. He belonged in the house at the bottom of the hill; yet he had lingered here by the dead body of a man whom he could not aid.
The Shadow’s tiny flashlight glimmered after Harry had departed. Keen eyes studied the position of Ezekiel Twinton’s form. The Shadow observed the flattened grass. His light showed the area of the brief struggle. It moved further along; then it suddenly went out.
Dunmore and Lang Sook had reappeared upon the porch. The old servant was carrying a lighted kerosene lamp. The Chinaman had armed himself with a large carving knife. Together, they stepped to the ground and advanced with caution. The Shadow moved off into the darkness. He waited and watched.
A gasp came from Dunmore’s lips when the servant discovered the body of Ezekiel Twinton. Lang Sook babbled incoherently in Chinese. Dunmore raised the lantern to form a larger circle of light. He did not see the lurking figure of The Shadow.
The servant signed to the cook. Lang Sook seemed to understand. Extinguishing the lantern, Dunmore laid it on the ground. He and the Chinaman lifted Twinton’s body and carried the inert form into the house. After the door had closed, The Shadow’s light again flickered here and there. At last it went out altogether. A soft laugh — solemn and mirthless — undulated through the darkness. The Shadow departed.
HARRY VINCENT had lost no time in heading back for the house below the hill. He realized that others could have reached this goal far ahead of him. When he arrived, Harry tried the back door. It opened. Softly, The Shadow’s agent entered and stole up to his room. His first action was to attire himself in pajamas. Then he sat in a chair and listened. Ten minutes passed.
Harry heard a sound in the hall. Then came the gruff challenge of a deputy. Feigning sleepiness, Harry opened the door of his room and stepped into view. He discovered the deputy speaking to Craven. The servant was half dressed.
“Where’ve you been?” quizzed the deputy.
“Down in the kitchen, sir,” responded Craven. “I fancied that I heard a sound down there. I went to investigate.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, sir — that is, all right now, sir” — Craven hesitated — “the back door was unbolted. But I believe that was a mere oversight, sir.”
“Didn’t you bolt it tonight?”
“No, sir. I thought that you would do so. Mr. Forey said that you were in charge here, sir.”
“Is the door bolted now?”
“Yes, sir. I bolted it.”
“All right, get to bed.”
The deputy nodded to Harry and strolled back into his room. Harry returned to his own quarters. Scarcely had he closed the door before he heard a scraping sound outside the window. Looking out, he saw Elbert Breck coming up the chain of straps. The young man gained the window and drew the improvised rope up after him.
Harry pondered as he inscribed a brief report. He knew that Elbert had been out; he was sure that Craven had also left the house. He pictured the two men upon the hill, both fleeing after Harry’s shout.
But why had they not arrived back before him? With fifteen minutes’ start, both had shown up fifteen minutes after Harry’s arrival. Why the half hour interval? All the way down the hill, Harry had worried for fear that Craven had arrived ahead to bolt the door. Now he was sure he knew the reason why the barrier had still been opened.
All this would be new mystery for The Shadow. Harry completed his report and went to bed. He was asleep when soft squidges sounded from outside his window. The figure of The Shadow appeared. Keen eyes read Harry’s coded report. The Shadow departed.
LATER, the phantom figure was lurking by the railroad tracks, near the abandoned shack. Listening, The Shadow heard footsteps upon the ties. He knew the identity of the man who walked by. It was Perry Nubin, the railroad detective.
The dick turned from the tracks and used a flashlight to find his way to the little shack. The light glimmered for a short while. The Shadow could see its glow through the grimy windows. Then the light blinked out. Perry Nubin had also been at large. He had chosen these quarters for the night.
The Shadow moved into darkness. His form became apparent later on, when it glided from the dark street beside the sheriff’s office and passed beneath the glow of a light on the main street. A fleeting patch of darkness that moved along the ground — the shadow of The Shadow — that was all.
The final token of The Shadow’s presence occurred in the little clearing where the autogiro was stationed. There, far from habitations, The Shadow indulged in a burst of mockery that came in bitter, sinister tones.
The sound died. Echoes lisped their answer. All was silent. The Shadow had been too late to intercept murder on the hill. But he had gained facts that might lead to its solution. There was an omen in The Shadow’s laugh.