“That ain’t the whole story,” remarked the railroad detective. “What’s it all about? What did the sheriff say to you?”
“He told me to keep my mouth shut,” retorted Hoyler. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Not with me,” assured Nubin, savagely. “I want the low-down. See? If I don’t get it, I’ll bust in there and do some key-pounding on my own account. Report to the divisional chief, asking him to relieve you.”
“All right,” responded Hoyler, wearily. “I guess a smart mug like you could have me fired. I’ll tell you all I know; but remember, the sheriff wants it kept mum. It’s got nothing to do with this line, anyway.”
“Spill it.”
“I DON’T know much,” admitted Hoyler. “This fellow Vincent came across a guy lying on the hill road. He reported it to Tim Forey. I suppose he made the call from old Breck’s house.”
“The lawyer who lives at the bottom of the hill? The bird that used to practice in New York?”
“Yeah. Well, anyway, Vincent must have thought the guy on the road was dead. But when he and Tim Forey went back there, they couldn’t find him. So Tim is keeping Vincent at Breck’s over night.”
“Is Breck worried?”
“Tim Forey says no. But he said Ezekiel Twinton, the old land-owner on the hill, might raise a squawk if he heard about the case. That’s why Vincent is staying here over night.”
“What else did the sheriff say?”
“Nothing. Except to ask who’d been around here when the local came in. I told him. Only townsfolk. If I’d known you came in on Number 42, I might have given you honorable mention.”
“Lay off that!” exclaimed Nubin, angrily. “Look here, Hoyler. No matter who tells you to keep mum, you talk to me. See? But when I come around you say nothing. Get that?”
“Sure. But quit sneaking in on me. I’ll go goofy if you keep it up.”
“Goofy? You mean maybe you’ll stow a bottle in that table drawer.”
Zach Hoyler set his pale lips as he stared through the window. He seemed to resent the detective’s insinuation. Nubin smiled in sneering fashion. Hoyler snapped a retort.
“Just because the last two fellows hit the booze here is no reason to suspect me,” declared the agent. “I haven’t touched a drop since I came on the trick three months ago. I figured you for a small-timer, Nubin, when I heard you had come down from the B and R to the Union Valley. But I didn’t think you were cheesy enough to spend your time trying to pin something on a little fellow like me.”
“That’s just one of my jobs,” growled the detective. “Well, don’t worry. Just keep sober, that’s all. Think I’ll move down to the crossing. Pick up the Dairy Express when she stops there.
“I might be back, though” — the dick paused warningly — “because the time a fellow would look for his bottle would be during the next few hours. It’s a long wait here, Hoyler, until those two trains come through around midnight.”
The agent smiled as indication of his sobriety. Perry Nubin passed the telegram back through the window. He stalked toward the door; then paused.
“I’m forgetting about the sheriff,” he remarked. “Anything that happens off the right of way don’t interest me. So long, Hoyler.”
When the detective had gone, Zach Hoyler took Harry Vincent’s telegram and clicked it over the wire. That job finished, the agent walked out on the platform and strolled about the station, swinging a lantern. This was an inspection duty that he performed at intervals between trains. He saw no sign of Perry Nubin during his tour.
THE telegram went through promptly. Less than an hour after the station agent had dispatched it, the wire was reaching its final destination in New York. White hands were beneath bluish lamplight in the corner of a dark-enshrouded room — The Shadow’s sanctum.
A light glimmered as a tiny spot upon the wall. The hands reached for earphones. A sinister whisper sounded in the gloom. A quiet voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
“Report from Mann. Wire from Vincent—”
The Shadow listened while Burbank repeated the message. The earphones clattered back to the wall. A hand wrote a note in ink of vivid blue, inserted the paper in an envelope and used another pen to address the letter to Rutledge Mann, Badger Building, New York.
The bluish light clicked out. A sinister, shuddering laugh rose to a crescendo, then shivered into ghoulish echoes. When those creepy reverberations ended, silence lay within the blackened sanctum.
The Shadow had learned the import of Harry Vincent’s relayed message. The significance lay in the expression “send full credentials.” That one word, “full,” denoted both mystery and tragedy. Unsolved crime had been reported to The Shadow by his agent.
The Shadow had departed from his sanctum. Though it was nearing midnight, the master was responding promptly to the lure of mystery. Before dawn hovered above the little town of Chanburg, The Shadow, creature of darkness, would be there.
CHAPTER V
THE SHADOW ARRIVES
MIDNIGHT. Sheriff Tim Forey and Harry Vincent were seated in Grantham Breck’s living room. The deputies were strolling about the house, keeping a watchful eye upon the kitchen, where the three servants formed a silent group.
“All right,” growled Forey. “Bring them in, Hank.”
One of the deputies responded. A few minutes later, Johanna, Adele and Craven filed into the living room. They stood like prisoners before the bar. Johanna was pale; Adele looked scared; only Craven appeared normal, but his face was morose.
“I want to talk to you folks,” growled Forey as he paced back and forth before the group. “I haven’t said anything yet, because I’ve been waiting for your master to show up. It’s midnight. He’s not back. So I’m sure something is wrong.”
Stopping, the sheriff stared at Johanna. The pale housekeeper placed her hands to her heart. Forey laughed gruffly.
“No use of faking again,” he declared. “You’re well enough to talk.”
“I did not feel good,” protested Johanna. “I tell you true, Mr. Forey. I was very sick. I was—”
“You passed out for a start,” broke in Forey. “After that you faked it. Talk straight, Johanna. What was it that frightened you? Something that Mr. Vincent said over the telephone?”
“That was right, Mr. Forey,” admitted Johanna. “It was all very bad when I heard him say that someone had been murdered.”
“Wait a minute. Vincent was watching you when he first spoke. That wasn’t when you began to faint. It was when he described the body that he had found.”
Johanna began to tremble. Staring steadily, Forey growled another question:
“Did you think from what he said that the dead man might have been Grantham Breck?”
Johanna nodded, weakly.
“You were right, Vincent,” declared the sheriff, turning to The Shadow’s agent. “Now, Johanna” — again Forey gazed at the housekeeper — “do you know where Mr. Breck went tonight?”
“No, sir.” The woman’s voice rang true. “But he goes out more than once at night. I have seen him. Yah!”
“You mean more than once tonight? Or other nights?”
“Other nights.”
“By the front door or the back?”
“By the little side door, Mr. Forey.”
“The side door? Where is it located?”
“At the foot of a little stairway, sir,” put in Craven. “Mr. Breck reached it from the landing by his little study on the second floor.”
“A secret entrance, eh?” quizzed Forey.
“Not exactly, sir,” explained Craven. “But it is a very convenient mode of entry. One that would not be easily noted.”