“On account of Elbert,” explained Harry. “I wanted to put him out of the game. So you would know he was innocent. I thought I might have to send word to you, so I prepared the note in advance.”
“Go on.”
“I switched the padlocks on the smoke house. Tonight, Elbert sneaked out. I grabbed him and locked him in there. Then I had a hunch that I ought to go up toward the hill, to see if a gang was prowling there. I got as far as the road; then someone landed on me. When I woke up, I was lying in the freight car. Nubin was trying to get me into shape. He had read my note. He thought my hunch was right. He needed me to aid him.”
“All right, Vincent,” decided the sheriff. “Things worked out right, so I’ve got to give you credit. What about you, Elbert?”
“I was in Laporte, sheriff,” blurted Elbert, “before my father died. I lied to you about being in New York. That put me in a bad spot to begin with. I had a wild theory. I thought that maybe Ezekiel Twinton had killed my father. That’s why I sneaked up to the hill.
“I ran into Twinton that night and fought with him. Only so I could shake him off — that was all. Then came the shot, close by. At first, I thought Twinton had fired it himself. I headed the wrong way when I ran. I laid around for a while before I had nerve enough to come back here to the house.
“I thought that Twinton had tried to shoot me; afterward, I decided that maybe someone else had fired the shot. Then I remembered something. The shot came just as Twinton bowled me over. I believe now that Zach Hoyler tried to murder me instead of Ezekiel Twinton. He might have believed that I knew about the money on the hill.”
“You are right, Mr. Breck,” declared Craven, speaking before Tim Forey had a chance. “I knew that your father had suspicious visitors, sir. I had never glimpsed them, but I believed that they were concerned with crime.”
“When did these visitors come in?” questioned Nubin, suddenly.
“Always well after midnight, sir,” answered Craven.
“Zach Hoyler,” nodded the detective, turning to the sheriff. “It fits. He was the bird who put back the gun — and stole it from your office later.”
“I became apprehensive,” resumed Craven. “First, I wanted to protect my old master’s name. After that, I feared for young Mr. Breck. I prowled a bit myself on his account. I was out that night that Mr. Twinton was slain; but I did not venture on the hill. I looked about a bit for young Mr. Breck; then I spied a cord from his window and waited for his return.”
TIM FOREY paced back and forth. The sheriff was piecing all that he had heard. He finally paused to express his final verdict.
“Zach Hoyler fooled us,” asserted Forey. “He must have been a member of Dobbin’s outfit — one of the bunch that went through here. He came to this town and landed a railroad job. He was always trying to get located in the Chanburg station. They finally put him there after two agents went sour on the job.
“But there was somebody else in all this. I don’t know who he was; but he ought to get plenty of credit. He mopped up that mob on the hill. Got the outfit again down there by the station. Who is he? What’s become of him?”
The sheriff paused. Harry Vincent was solemn. He was anxious to know what had happened to The Shadow. In the silence that followed, there was a ring of the telephone. Forey answered it. His eyes were gleaming when he hung up.
“Got the swag!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Down by the B and R junction! Engineers on the Limited saw the engine of the milk train stalled there. They’re backing the locomotive here to Chanburg, swag and all.”
“Which means,” decided Nubin, “that somebody got Zach Hoyler. He’d never have beat it without the swag; and somebody must have stopped that locomotive by the junction.”
Harry Vincent smiled in satisfaction. All had been cleared. Missing wealth would be returned. Crooks had gained the end that they deserved. The Shadow’s agent knew his chief was safe. Moreover, he had a sudden hunch regarding The Shadow’s whereabouts. Harry was thinking of the Limited.
THE guess was correct. On the fast train, speeding into New York, a passenger was lying in the lower berth of a compartment. His face — a trifle pale — was that of Lamont Cranston. This passenger had presumably boarded the train at Torrington, the last stop of the Limited before the Union Valley junction. But he had not encountered the conductor until after the train had pulled away from the junction.
Resting on his right side, The Shadow smiled. He was thinking of what was going on in Chanburg; of the explanations that would be made; of the one mystery that Sheriff Tim Forey would not clear. Later, The Shadow would return to Chanburg, to reclaim his autogiro and lift it from the clearing at night.
Then came thoughts of Zach Hoyler, the hidden crook who had managed crime. The Shadow had recollections of one night outside the station; to his throbbing brain came the ticks of the telegraph key.
Zach Hoyler was sending telegrams. Pauses between the wires — three pauses that The Shadow could remember. Zach Hoyler had been given only three telegrams. One from Harry Vincent, one from Perry Nubin, one from Elbert Breck. Three telegrams, yet three pauses. Why? Because The Shadow had heard four telegrams that night.
The fourth had been Zach Hoyler’s own. A wire to a blind in New York. Signed with a fictitious name. The summons to the gang. The Shadow remembered more. A note on Hoyler’s table, left there after the arrival of the box of Lugers. The Shadow had read it. So had Spike Balgo. The mobleader had taken the note with him. It had ordered him to steal the box and return it; to keep the Lugers if they proved to be its contents.
Throbbing thoughts, the aftermath of a titanic struggle. The fight on the hill, the battle at the station, the grim conflict in the cab of the thundering locomotive. A soft laugh whispered from The Shadow’s lips. It died within the confines of the compartment.
The Limited plunged onward. Its whistle blared through the silent countryside. Its shrill blasts were unheard by the passenger in the compartment. Wearied at last, The Shadow was asleep.