“I have an envelope that tells specifically of a hiding place somewhere in New York. It describes a room, but finding that room would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
Bob Maddox appeared puzzled. Of all his evil adventures, this was the strangest.
Here, in an apartment high above the roaring street, in the quiet sitting-room of an old attorney’s suite, he was trying to gain the clew to a mystery that savored of medieval castles and buried treasure that lay beneath moated walls.
“How then can I obtain it?” he asked.
“It may not be intended for you,” smiled Mitchell, wanly.
“Why are you telling me about it?” asked Bob.
“Because it will do no harm,” was the answer. “I am telling you only because you are Theodore Galvin’s heir.
“He left you residuary legatee of his entire estate. I have seen his will — and therefore his secret possessions belong to you, if you can find them.
“I have definite instructions. I am to wait for the person who brings me a special paper which your uncle possessed. It gives the clew to the hiding place.”
“What is the paper like?”
“I have never seen it. Theodore Galvin told me that I would understand it when I saw it. Without it, I am helpless to aid.”
Bob Maddox fumbled in his pocket.
“Is this it?”
He passed over the sheet of paper which he had received at the Cobalt Club. Zachary Mitchell’s eyes lighted.
“Where did you get this?” he exclaimed.
“From Thaddeus Westcott.”
“Ah, yes. Your uncle must have left it with him.”
“He did leave it with him. To keep until he returned. Or” — Bob felt that a lie would help the story — “to give to his heir if he did not return.”
THE explanation suited Zachary Mitchell. He did not know that Westcott had simply given the paper to Bob because he did not know what else to do with it.
Bob maintained his silence. He made no mention of the fact that this paper was a duplicate of the one which Reynold Barker had found in Theodore Galvin’s secret drawer.
Zachary Mitchell was chuckling. His eyes beamed as he studied the paper before him.
“Your uncle was right,” he declared. “He said that I would understand. I do understand. Simple, now — but I would never have guessed.”
“You can solve the code?” questioned Bob, eagerly.
“What code?”
“The code on that paper.”
The old man laughed. “This is not a code,” he declared.
“Not a code? What—”
“It is a map,” said Zachary Mitchell, quietly. “A map of New York streets, with your uncle’s house as the starting point.
“Look” — Bob leaned forward, intently as Mitchell explained — “and observe those double lines. Your uncle’s house faces south. You go one square east, then one south.
“Connect the next symbol. Another square south, another east. Connect the next — one more east. Then a single square on a diagonal street, running southeast—”
Bob clutched the paper as the old lawyer paused. Here was the clew — the map of New York streets that led to a spot some eleven squares away from the old mansion where Theodore Galvin had lived.
“But what then?” he questioned. “Where will the hiding place be?”
“I have read the instructions in the envelope,” declared Mitchell, calmly, now convinced that Bob was fully entitled to all information. “It gives a number and describes a room, telling how the key can be used. That makes it obvious.
“At the end of your trail you will, in all probability, come to one of the many buildings which your uncle erected.”
The old man opened a table drawer and drew out an envelope. Bob tore it open and began to read. Mitchell also handed him a key, which Bob took without looking.
“There, in the proper room,” said Mitchell, “you will find the hiding place specified. It was probably known to one man only beside your uncle. That is the architect who designed it — undoubtedly Richard Harkness—”
Bob looked up startled at the name. He remembered now that Harkness had been on the point of making a statement when Clink had fired the fatal shot. So that was it! Harkness, to save his life, had intended to speak.
THERE was some sign in Bob’s face that startled Zachary Mitchell. The old attorney stared narrowly at the young man.
Bob did not notice the look. He was again reading the contents of the envelope. The telephone rang. Bob looked up again; then resumed his reading as Mitchell answered the phone in a quiet voice.
The lawyer’s conversation consisted entirely of short replies. Some one was giving him information, yet the shrewd old attorney did not betray the fact.
He was listening to a quiet voice — the voice of Burbank — and it was carrying both a warning and an explanation. The Shadow’s agent was thwarting the schemes of Bob Maddox and his fellow plotters.
Mitchell hung up the receiver and turned quietly toward his visitor.
“There is something else,” he said, calmly. “I had almost forgotten it. Read the letter again.”
As Bob Maddox obeyed, the old lawyer reopened the table drawer. He turned.
Bob looked up, to find himself staring in the muzzle of a revolver!
“You filthy crook!” declared Mitchell firmly. “You are not Robert Galvin. You are an impostor! Your name is Maddox. You are one of the crooks whom Theodore Galvin feared!”
Maddox did not deny the impeachment. He cowered momentarily before the threat of the revolver; then regained his bearing. He looked shrewdly at Zachary Mitchell.
“What of it?” he asked. “Old Galvin was crooked, too. He double-crossed the Chief. We’re only after what belongs to us.”
“Part of it may be yours,” declared Mitchell. “But as it now stands, possession has priority.
“Robert Galvin is entitled to whatever wealth may be in that hiding place. You have tried to rob him. Where is he? Murdered?”
“No,” replied Maddox, calmly. “He is tucked away somewhere. We didn’t want him to make trouble.
“Look here. There’s enough of a haul for all of us. If you want a split, we’ll give it to you.”
“Very considerate,” commented Mitchell, sarcastically. “I shall end that little game, right now.”
He reached for the telephone with his free hand.
“Wait!” blurted Maddox. “What are you going to do?”
“Turn you over to the police,” replied Mitchell, his hand on the receiver. “You will be charged with the abduction of Robert Galvin!”
A CHAOS of thoughts swept through Bob Maddox’s brain. The abduction of Robert Galvin! What of the murders of Hodgson and Betty Mandell? He was responsible for both!
Desperation seized him. It would be better to die now than later.
As Zachary Mitchell lifted the receiver, Maddox threw himself frantically upon the old lawyer. The gun barked. The shot came too late. Maddox thrust Mitchell’s arm aside just as the lawyer pulled the trigger.
They grappled now, and all the advantage lay with the younger man. He held Mitchell’s wrist in a powerful clutch.
He was sure that the shot had been fired before the downstairs operator had answered the telephone, for he heard a clicking begin while they were struggling.
They were grimly silent, for Maddox had driven his hand into Mitchell’s mouth and had thus prevented an outcry. Now the old man began to weaken. Maddox flung him violently across the room.
Mitchell tumbled as he struck the wall. The revolver clattered on the floor. Maddox leaped to the telephone and placed the receiver on its hook.
He turned, just in time to see Mitchell crawling for the gun. It was almost within the old man’s grasp.