Something white projected from the side pocket of Harry’s coat. The man drew out the envelope addressed to Sheriff Tim Forey. He opened it, unfolded the paper and began to read by the glow of his flashlight. Muttering sound came from the man’s lips.
Mumbling after he had finished reading, the fellow extinguished the flashlight. Groping in the corner of the car, he produced a small oil lantern. He lighted the wick and hung the lantern on a nail that projected from the wall of the car.
The lamplight revealed Harry Vincent lying senseless on the floor. It also revealed the visage of the man who had brought The Shadow’s agent here. It showed a grim smile upon the thick lips of a hard-faced countenance.
The stocky fighter who had ended Harry Vincent’s prowl; the antagonist who held the young man prisoner was Perry Nubin, the hard-boiled railroad detective. It was he who had also learned the import of the undelivered note to Sheriff Tim Forey.
CHAPTER XIX
FOES IN THE LIGHT
SOME minutes after Perry Nubin had dragged Harry Vincent from the road on the hillside, a tiny glimmer of light blinked upon the deserted highway. This was close to the spot where Harry had left the tell-tale markers. Probing the darkness, the intermittent glimmer picked out the posted stones.
A whispered laugh. The Shadow had learned of his agent’s doings. Elbert Breck was a prisoner, stowed in the smoke house. That much had been accomplished. The light went out. The Shadow moved along the road.
Not far beyond the spot where The Shadow had stopped, lay evidence of the encounter on the upper embankment. Those traces of conflict could not have escaped The Shadow had he approached the place. There, the shrouded investigator might have divined that his agent had been captured. But The Shadow did not advance that far. Something occurred to stay his progress.
Footsteps were clicking upon the hard dirt of the road. They were coming from the direction of the grade crossing. The Shadow knew their meaning. They marked the approach of part of Spike Balgo’s crew.
Stealthily, The Shadow drew away. Moving down the road, he merged with the upper embankment. Weaving his way through bushes, he began a circuitous course toward the closed house where Ezekiel Twinton had lived. The Shadow was reserving all encounters with any of Spike’s gorillas.
Four men paused in the roadway. One glimmered a flashlight. The voice of Spike Balgo emitted a low growl. The gangleader recognized the spot where he had bumped off old Grantham Breck.
“All right, mugs,” stated the mobleader. “This is where we move up the hill. Here’s a good spot” — his light turned toward the exact place where Harry and Nubin had struggled downward — “so move ahead while I’m following.”
Mobsters obeyed. They climbed the bank by the glimmer of Spike’s torch. As soon as their figures were out of sight, Spike followed. This small crew constituted one third of his mob. Two other squads were moving toward the same objective, each by a different route.
When Spike reached the top of the embankment, he made out the shapes of his mobsmen. They had moved ahead. Spike blinked his light to show that he was following. Wisely, the mobleader kept it to the ground. That fact was responsible for a chance discovery.
Spike spotted an object on the ground. Using the light again, he saw Harry Vincent’s automatic. The mobleader picked up the gun and discovered that it was loaded. He stood in darkness, pondering upon his find.
There was no telling how long the automatic had lain in this spot. Spike was sure that it must have been dropped since the time of Grantham Breck’s death. Otherwise, searchers for the lawyer’s body would have found it. But someone could have lost the weapon on the night when Ezekiel Twinton was slain. Confident that such was the case, Spike pocketed the automatic and followed his men.
SEVERAL minutes later, squads were joining beside the little spring house that stood at the edge of the old Pastely farm. Crouched in darkness, Spike Balgo growled final instructions to his mob.
“This is the place we’re after,” he declared. “I’m putting you wise to the whole lay — the way the big shot gave it to me. There’s only one place where the Dobbin outfit could have stowed the swag. That was in this little house.
“Like as not it’s under some stone slabs. We may have to use the soup to get at it. Getting into this joint would have been a job before Twinton was rubbed out. There ain’t nobody going to bother us now, though. That closed house up there is a break the big shot hadn’t counted on.
“Three of you mugs stick here with me. The rest of you spread. Keep close enough so you can know what’s going on. But spread out far enough so you can make trouble for any birds who might come sneaking up on us.”
“What about the closed house?” came a question, from Dingbat.
“Keep an eye on it,” ordered Spike. “There might be some bums hanging out in there. But don’t move into the place. No use in disturbing nobody before we use the soup. That’ll bring ‘em out quick enough.”
Mobsters moved away. Crowbars clicked beside the little spring house. Spike’s flashlight glimmered. Tough gorillas began to pry at the metal-sheathed door. Rusted nails yielded. The prying workers grunted and wrenched the barrier from its fastenings.
Spike Balgo was the first to enter. His flashlight glimmered about the stone-walled interior. The walls of the house were damp and musty. Water showed upon the floor. There, Spike pointed out cracks between the slabs of stone.
“We’ll use the soup,” he decided. “Get started, Kirky. We ain’t got no time to be wasted.”
Two mobsters used their crowbars to pry up heavy chunks of stone. Spike went outside to see that all was well. When he returned, a whisper informed him that the explosive was planted. Spike gave the word. A fuse was lighted; the door of the spring house slammed shut. Spike and his trio dug out for safety.
The blast was a dull one. Spike growled his approval of Kirky’s method. The explosive had evidently been confined to the slabs, for no damage showed on the walls of the spring house as Spike approached with his flashlight.
Smoke spewed forth in thick volume when the door was reopened. Spike and his men choked in the fumes; then, when the air had cleared, they entered. A pleased growl came from the leader’s evil lips. Slabs had been uplifted and twisted askew. A gaping hole showed beneath. Spike’s light revealed a slab three feet below.
Crowbars clattered. They levered the stone aside. The flashlight showed the lid of an iron coffer. Groping hands descended and gripped the handles at the sides. It was a hard tug, but the mobsmen brought the rusted box from its hiding place. Spike coughed an order to lug it outside, on account of the remnants of the troublesome fumes.
The four men formed a little group as they took the box to the fence line. There Spike’s flashlight renewed its glimmer. It showed the box upon the ground. Mobsmen pounded at the lid. The box came open.
SPIKE snarled his gloating triumph when he viewed the contents. Bank notes of high denomination showed in bundles. There were also odd stacks of gold and silver; these had given the box its weight. Securities were stacked beside the currency. Spike’s practiced hands pawed the swag while another mobster held the light.
“Plenty here,” asserted the gangleader. “Like the big shot said there’d be. Shut the lid. We’ll be moving along. Say this is a cinch. Dobbin’s outfit got cooked — we’ve gabbed the gravy—”
The mobleader paused abruptly. He clicked off his flashlight. He had caught a strange sound from somewhere in the night. It was like a mocking whisper — an eerie taunt that came with the rising tone of a gathering breeze.