“Give the order,” said Hoyler. “I’ll pry the top loose. But remember — the responsibility is yours. It’s kind of away from regulations; but you seem to make your own rules when you want to—”
“Leave it lay,” interposed Nubin. “But it’s not going over to Breck’s in the morning. This box is addressed to Grantham Breck. You can’t notify a dead man that a shipment is waiting for him.”
“How about calling the sheriff?” questioned Hoyler. “Tim Forey has every right to open it. Maybe it might give some clue to why Grantham Breck was murdered.”
“That’s a good idea. Where is Forey tonight?”
“Somewhere downtown. Probably out at some fellow’s house playing poker in the kitchen, with the window shades down. That’s the way they do round this town. Got to keep in right with the goody-goodies, you know.”
“Suppose we wait until you’re off duty,” decided Nubin. “I was going out on Sixty-eight; but I think I’ll stay over. I’ll run down with you and help look up the sheriff. Guess I could get a room in that house where you’re living?”
“Sure. The place is as big as a barn and there’s only about three people rooming in it. The old lady will be sore when we wake her up; but I guess she’ll get over it.”
Hoyler locked the door of the baggage room. He had other details before the Dairy Express came through. He mentioned that fact to Nubin. The detective nodded. After Hoyler went back into the station, Nubin strolled about; then suddenly cut across the tracks and prowled past the empty freight cars.
AS on a previous night, The Shadow caught sight of the detective’s outline as Nubin headed up past the green signal. Tonight, however, The Shadow did not follow. He waited. At last the dick returned. He appeared at the end of the station platform, just as the whistle of the Dairy Express sounded at the grade crossing above the station.
The milk train arrived. Nubin joined Hoyler. The agent closed the station. The two men went away in Hoyler’s car. It was then that The Shadow moved along the darkened platform. He reached the door of the waiting room; he picked the lock without the aid of his tiny light. Inside, The Shadow turned the lock as deftly as he had opened it. He continued into the office.
Here the light glimmered. It shone on the table, where Hoyler, in his hurry, had left odd articles scattered about; then it flashed toward the inside door to the baggage room. Suddenly the light went out, while The Shadow whispered a laugh that was inaudible outside this room.
He had heard sounds from outside. Quickly, The Shadow worked on the inside door of the baggage room. It opened; the lock was not formidable. The Shadow stepped into the windowless room and locked the door behind him. His light glimmered; he found a corner hiding place behind two trunks.
OUTSIDE, stealthy figures had approached the door of the waiting room. One man was working on the lock. He had a key which seemed to serve his purpose; for after a few attempts, it did the work as effectively as The Shadow’s pick.
“Stay here, mugs,” came a low growl. “Wait’ll I go in and look over the lay.”
“All right, Spike,” came a response.
The man who had opened the door moved across the waiting room. He entered the ticket office. He flashed a light upon the table. Then, after a pause, he turned the glare along the wall, to the door of the baggage room. Producing a smaller-sized key, he worked on this lock. It yielded. The locks throughout this station were obsolete. It was seldom that anything of value was left here over night.
The flashlight gleamed a half minute longer in the ticket office. Then came “Spike’s” growl, through the grilled window to the waiting room:
“Well, you mugs! I’m waiting. Move in here.”
Followers obeyed. Half a dozen men followed Spike into the baggage room. Faces showed dimly above the light as Spike picked out the box addressed to Grantham Breck. It occupied the center of the floor.
“Lug it,” growled the leader. “Out the way we came. Maybe this is what we’re looking for.”
“Heavy enough,” remarked one of the gang.
“Yeah.” Spike’s tone was non-committal. “Well, we ain’t opening it here. Hoist it along the track while I’m locking up.”
Men moved out with the box. Spike followed. He locked the door behind him. Minutes passed. At last, The Shadow moved. His soft laugh echoed in eerie fashion as its tones crept through the windowless baggage room.
This time The Shadow used his little light as he unlocked the outer door. The flashlight went out; The Shadow stepped from the baggage room and locked the door behind him. Spike and his henchmen had disappeared; but The Shadow had no doubt concerning their destination. Shrouded in darkness, this being of the night took to the tracks and headed toward the shack that lay halfway to the grade crossing.
The Shadow had permitted the theft of the box addressed to Grantham Breck. Like those who had stolen the heavy article, he intended to view the contents when the box was opened.
CHAPTER XVI
SPIKE MAKES PLANS
WHEN The Shadow had first viewed the shack near the railroad, it had been deserted. Later, The Shadow had observed Perry Nubin use the place for sleeping quarters. Tonight, when The Shadow arrived near the wooden building, he found it under guard.
Three men were stationed as pickets outside the shack. They had no lights; but they were covering the edges of the tiny clearing. Their circle of coverage was scarcely more than fifty feet in circumference.
There was a light inside the shack. Otherwise, all was darkness. This was to The Shadow’s liking. Noiselessly, the master sleuth picked a space between two pickets. Not one of the three guards knew that he had entered the circle.
The Shadow avoided the grimy windows through which the light trickled. Had he stopped by one of them, his form would have blotted out the light from within the shack. Instead of a window, The Shadow chose a corner where a loose board had been knocked out. There was an opening a foot in width, two feet above the floor. Crouching close to the ground, The Shadow peered within.
Mobsmen from Manhattan. The Shadow recognized their leader. Spike Balgo. The fellow was noted for his toughness. Spike, himself, was prying the top from the box that had come for Grantham Breck. Boards crackled as Spike manipulated a jimmy. The box came open.
Spike yanked away excelsior. Then came a triumphant growl. He reached into the box and produced a Luger pistol; then another. Out came more in quick succession. Spike opened small boxes, with drawerlike lids. He held up a cartridge, to display its shiny bullet.
“Say” — Spike’s dark, thick-featured face came into the light — “the big boy guessed it right. Lugers. Brought in for us. This means we can do plenty. There’s more rods than we need.”
Mobsmen were shuffling about. They seemed puzzled by Spike’s statement. The mobleader ordered them to stack the guns and ammunition in the corner. He tilted the big box on end. Grinning in the light of the kerosene lantern, he began to talk.
“Listen, mugs,” announced Spike. “I said I’d give you the lay when we got out here. Some of you was with me before; but even they don’t know what it’s all about. I don’t talk as a rule, see? But there’s times when I tell things.
“We’re after a load of real swag. The big boy — you don’t need to know who he is just yet — knew it was stowed somewhere around here. He thought he’d play a good bet. He knew a foxy lawyer old Grantham Breck — who was living in the house down at the bottom of the hill.
“He spilled the news to Breck. Big swag — stuff taken in and hid by the Dobbin gang, some years ago. He and Breck figured between them where the stuff would be. But there was a guy living near it — a bimbo named Ezekiel Twinton.”