When the prowler neared the railroad, he sneaked toward the platform. His stocky form showed in the light. The man who had been by Breck’s house was the railroad detective, Perry Nubin. The dick glanced in through a window of the station. He saw Zach Hoyler at the telegraph key. Shuffling away, Nubin walked along the tracks; then, after a pause, he again cut back across fields toward the old house.
The outbound Union Limited had gone through while Tim Forey and Harry Vincent had been waiting to quiz the servants. The inbound Dairy Express was due shortly. Hoyler had to be on duty when the Limited stopped; also when the fast milk train arrived. That would end his trick for the night.
THE Dairy Express was whistling for the grade crossing when Perry Nubin again neared the Breck house. Seated in an upstairs room, Harry Vincent was writing a report by the mild glare of a table lamp. The Shadow’s agent heard the distant whistle; he also caught the clang of the bell as the train rolled into the station. Then, amid a lull, Harry was sure that he heard footsteps creaking somewhere in the house. They seemed to be descending stairs.
Hastily folding his half-written report, Harry sprang to the hall. There he found the deputy who had been stationed in an upstairs room — the fellow whom the sheriff had called Hank. On the stairway from the third floor to the second was Craven. The butler stared at the two men.
“Pardon, sir,” he said to Harry. “I fancied that I heard the sound of a closing door. I thought that it might be the side exit to the house.”
“Go back to bed,” ordered Hank. “You got us hopping out here thinking you were some prowler.”
Craven turned and went upstairs. Harry and Hank returned to their rooms. But Harry was thoughtful as he heard the distant clang of the Dairy Express, followed by the chugging of the train from the station. He wondered if Craven had actually heard someone outside the house; or if the butler’s statement had been a pretence to cover his own actions.
Harry stared from his window. He saw no one. But he was seen. A chunky man, crouching off by a side fence watched until Harry had gone from the window. Then the fellow cut off toward the hill. It was Detective Perry Nubin. The railroad dick was taking a long route toward the railway. If he left the vicinity tonight, it would be by a freight. The Dairy Express had already pulled away.
Harry finished his report, a matter of several pages, with blue-inked diagrams. He sealed the papers in an envelope and left it on the table. He went to bed; but he did not extinguish the little light. Harry had a reason for letting that glow remain.
THREE hours later, a faint thrum sounded above the town of Chanburg. Then came silence as an autogiro, its motor shut, moved slowly downward toward an open space that lay in the midst of woods. The giro settled like a hovering bird. A soft laugh whispered as a shrouded figure stepped from the strange ship.
Not long afterward, keen eyes were peering from darkness toward the gloomy house of Grantham Breck. Dull lights showed from the living room windows; a deputy was on duty there. The only other window that revealed a glow was that of Harry Vincent’s room.
A squidgy sound came from the side of the house. Blackness seemed to project itself inward through Harry’s opened window. Solid darkness materialized itself into the weird shape of a fantastic being. A tall, sinister figure garbed in flowing cloak of black, his features obscured by the turned-down brim of a slouch hat. Such was The Shadow.
Harry Vincent was asleep. Gloved hands picked up the envelope from the table. Fingers produced the report. Keen, burning eyes read the full account of Harry’s adventures, including the final incident of Craven on the stairs.
Writing faded after The Shadow had read it. Such was the way with messages transmitted in the special ink. The lines of the diagram vanished after The Shadow had finished with it. The papers which The Shadow placed beneath his cloak were blank.
Every detail was implanted in the mind of the master sleuth. Silently, The Shadow crossed the room and glided out into the hall. Moving through darkness, he reached Grantham Breck’s study. A tiny flashlight glimmered as The Shadow made a brief inspection, to assure himself that no secret hiding places were located here.
After the light went out, a swishing sound came from the side stairway. The Shadow reached the side door; the light shone on the keyhole. A probing instrument of steel opened the lock. The Shadow moved out into darkness and used his special key to lock the door behind him.
From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable, save for the glare of his flashlight when it reappeared at the very spot on the hill road where Harry Vincent had spied the body. There, The Shadow moved in mysterious fashion. His tiny light showed broken twigs on bushes; it revealed a tiny fragment of gray cloth hooked by a bramble.
The Shadow moved up the hill side of the road. His light, directed on the ground, enabled his keen eyes to spy slight flatterings of parched grass. Moving here and there, The Shadow traced evidence of various paths — footprints that even an expert sleuth would have ignored.
Though these traces were insufficient to serve as identifications; though they formed hopeless, intermittent paths, The Shadow, none the less, seemed satisfied. As token came the whispered mockery of his uncanny laugh — a sound that resembled an echo from his sanctum in Manhattan.
When the first tinge of grayish dawn trickled from a clouded horizon it revealed a fleeting outline of the black-cloaked figure on the hillside. Then The Shadow merged with the darkness of a wooded patch. The early morning breeze caught the sinister throbs of a modulated laugh and carried its whispered echoes.
That was the final token of The Shadow’s presence. His first brief investigation finished, the master had departed. Night was The Shadow’s habitat. Others could act by day; Harry Vincent could report their doings. When shrouding darkness fell once more, The Shadow, invisible, would resume his task.
CHAPTER VI
NEW PERSONS ENTER
LATE the next afternoon, Harry Vincent’s coupe pulled up at an old house on the hill. Harry had followed the road at Sheriff Forey’s guidance. The approach to the house had required a considerable detour. This house was the home of Ezekiel Twinton. After Harry and Forey alighted, the sheriff rang the bell.
An old, quavering servant answered the door. He ushered the visitors into a small parlor. A few minutes later, a dry-faced, crabby man entered. Harry placed his age as between fifty and sixty. This man was Ezekiel Twinton. He nodded to Forey; gave a curt greeting when introduced to Harry; then sat down.
“I suppose you know what’s up, Mr. Twinton,” opened Forey. “We’ve been searching all over the hillside for the body of a murdered man.”
“I saw the searching parties,” crackled Twinton, “but I did not learn their purpose. I sent Dunmore out to inquire, but the poor fellow is nearly stone deaf. He came back with a very imperfect idea of what was going on.”
“You’ve still got the chink servant, haven’t you?” inquired Forey.
“Yes,” replied Twinton. “Lang Sook, my Chinese cook. But he is as hopeless as Dunmore. Lank Sook cannot understand English; Dunmore cannot hear.”
“He answered the door quick enough,” observed Forey.
“He does that,” remarked Twinton, with a nod. “He seems somehow to detect the vibration of the door bell. But you can shout in his ear without him hearing you. However, the house is well guarded. I have hounds and Great Danes chained about the place after dark. They are sufficient to frighten dangerous intruders. I shall be watchful from now on, since you have found a dead man near here. Where was the body?”