“The big shot’s taking care of himself,” returned Spike. “He ain’t going up on the hill. We’ll meet him later. What’s more, he’s not going to get himself in no trouble until we’re with him.
“Maybe he’ll stick here after we make our get-away. He’s smart enough to stay on the ground if he wants to. Maybe he’ll scram along with us. That’s up to him. If he sticks, you mugs won’t even know who he is. If he takes it on the lam, you’ll find out who he is.
“The big shot’s our ace in the hole. Get that? He’s the cover-up man in this outfit. I know what he wants done; I got the final orders before we came here. He knows we’re here. I’ve been moving around while you mugs were in this shack. Whether I’ve talked with the big shot or whether I’m going to talk with him — well, that’s my business and his.”
With this final statement, Spike Balgo motioned his crew along. Dingbat followed with the bag full of old revolvers. Other mobsters carried the empty box. Three members of the crew remained in charge of the shack.
AFTER the last of the departers had scrambled up the embankment, a huge blot detached itself from the side of the shack. An unseen form glided off into the darkness. It did not follow Spike Balgo and his mob; instead, the shrouded shape moved away from the railroad.
Several minutes later, a whispered laugh sounded near a clump of trees. That soft yet sinister sound marked the passage of The Shadow. Later, a blackened figure loomed through the window of Harry Vincent’s room. A tiny light flickered. The Shadow was preparing a message for his agent.
The task was completed when The Shadow left an envelope upon the table near the window. The blackened form moved outward. The next token of The Shadow came from the clearing where the autogiro was located. The Shadow’s voice sounded as a sinister whisper as the master of darkness formed radio contact with Burbank, in New York.
After this communication was ended, The Shadow laughed again. There was foreboding in that hollow tone that died amid the clearing. The mockery carried a note of coming triumph. The Shadow had anticipated events; he had also deducted past occurrences. Spike Balgo’s conversation with his mob had merely proven the soundness of The Shadow’s analysis of the past and the future.
Silence. The Shadow was resting for the morrow. When Spike Balgo and his crew fared forth to the hills, they would be scheduled to find a hidden foe of whose presence they had not dreamed. Men of evil were slated to meet The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVII
MOVES BEGIN
NINE o’clock the next evening. The through freight had just pulled out, taking along the two cars loaded with canned goods. Another empty had been left; this car was far up the siding, toward the switch.
Passengers had not yet arrived for the evening local. One man was stamping back and forth through the waiting room. It was Perry Nubin, the railroad dick. He was impatient when he stopped beside the ticket window.
“Say” — Nubin growled as he addressed Zach Hoyler, who was at his table — “I want to ride out on that local.”
“Nobody will stop you.”
“I know that. But I don’t want to go before that fool sheriff gets here. He said he was coming to open that box that blew in for old Grantham Breck.”
“Forey went out of town this morning,” observed the agent. “Said he would come out here after he got back. There’s nothing to worry about. The box is safe.”
“It ought to be,” agreed Nubin. “The only time you opened the door was when those shippers took the canned stuff out. We were both watching to see they left Breck’s box alone.”
“Well. Why beef about it then?”
“I told you why. I want to get back to Laporte. Maybe there’s a message there for me—”
Nubin broke off as the door of the waiting room opened. In stamped Sheriff Tim Forey. The official nodded to the detective; then approached the ticket window.
“All right, Zach,” he said to the agent, “let’s see that box. We can go in through the inside door, can’t we?”
The agent nodded. He picked up a cluster of keys. He went to the inner door of the baggage room. Forey and Nubin followed. The door unlocked, Hoyler turned on a light. Tim Forey studied the box which lay in the center of the floor. He read its label.
“To Grantham Breck all right,” he declared. “Well, it’s got to be delivered to his son. Have you called the house yet, Zach?”
“No,” responded the station agent. “But there was a call here today. Phone’s been fixed at Breck’s.”
“Who called?”
“Well, there were two calls, now that I come to think of it. One from young Elbert; then one from Craven.”
“What did they want to know?”
“If anything had come in. I took it to mean telegrams. I didn’t mention the box, because you hadn’t seen it.”
“Hm-m. I wonder why they both called?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which called first?” quizzed Nubin, suddenly.
“Young Breck,” responded Hoyler.
“That settles it.” The dick laughed. “He must have told the servant to call; the fellow probably was busy so young Breck made the call himself. Then the servant called later. But say, sheriff — what about this box? Are you going to open it?”
“Yes,” responded Forey. “But I thought it might be best to run it over to Breck’s first.”
“That won’t do.”
“Why not?”
“Well — when Hoyler here called you last night, you said you’d come up today and take a look in the box. Being as how it concerns the railroad, you agreed to let me see the shipment.”
“You can go with me to Breck’s.”
“Then Hoyler won’t see the shipment, He’s the agent who received it. If I make a report, I ought to have his statement. What’s more — I’m going out on the local. Won’t have time to go over to Breck’s. Train’s pretty near due.”
Taps from the agent’s wicket proved Nubin’s statement. Hoyler went out to see who was there. Staring from the baggage room, Forey saw a firm, impassive face beyond the ticket window. The sheriff was staring at The Shadow — guised as Lamont Cranston.
A QUIET voice asked for a ticket to Laporte; also for time tables of the Union Valley and the B and R. While Hoyler was busy, Foray acceded to Nubin’s request. He picked up a small metal wedge and used a hammer to drive it under the top boards of the box. The container came open with surprising ease.
Foray saw the glint of metal. An exclamation of surprise came from his lips. He thrust his hand into the box and yanked out a tin can. It had no label. Liquid sounded within when the sheriff shook the metal cylinder.
“Canned goods!” exclaimed Nubin. “Say — that’s a hot one. No wonder the box was heavy.”
“No labels, though,” growled Foray. “May be something phony about this.”
Zach Hoyler had come back from the ticket office. The customer was still at the window, studying a time table. Like Hoyler, he could see the tin can that the sheriff was holding. He also heard Forey’s remark.
“Tin cans?” put in Hoyler, as he approached. “That’s a funny one, Tim. There were crates of canned goods here in the baggage room all night.”
“Labeled?” asked the sheriff.
“Sure,” replied the agent, scratching his head. “Over from the Newton Canneries. Had their usual labels on them.”
“Humph.” The sheriff paused. “Maybe some smart Aleck might have taken the labels off some of those cans. He could have put them in this box.”
“I locked everything last night,” remarked Hoyler. “Still, these doors aren’t any too strong. I never leave anything valuable here at the station.”
“It’s just a coincidence,” laughed Perry Nubin, eying the sheriff’s frowning face. “Old Breck must have bought some canned goods cheap — right out of a factory. Through some official in the place. Maybe these were samples of some sort.