Tharbel did not complete the inference. Cardona again admired the county detective’s shrewdness. A dog would know its master. Moxton’s dog would probably be no exception.
“Not only Moxton’s house,” declared Tharbel, “but the man’s own actions indicate his crookedness. He came here some months ago and purchased the old house for cash. It underwent repairs. Moxton, when he lived there, posed as a semi-invalid. He was seen, nearly every day, by persons in the neighborhood, when he took feeble walks about his premises.
“But when he faced the State police, he showed every sign of agility. His disappearance is further proof that he could move with speed. He must have made his way out one of the many downstairs doors. There were two flights of steps in the house. He could have taken the ones opposite those which the police used to come up.”
With this statement, Tharbel arose and picked up his hat. He motioned Cardona to come along.
“Can’t show you the dog,” said Tharbel abruptly, as the two men went down the street. “Nobody sees that Dalmatian. Not until we’ve got Moxton — nobody except the men who are looking out for him. But I’ll take you to the house.”
AS they climbed into the coupe, Cardona put a sudden question. It was something that he had meant to ask, but had forgotten in the discussion of other matters.
“You say that all of Moxton’s servants died?” he asked. “All lost out when they were fighting to get this inventor, Neswick?”
“All that we could find,” returned Tharbel.
“And yet Neswick could give you no description of the man who rescued him?”
“Only a vague description,” answered Tharbel, as he guided the coupe to the avenue which led to Moxton’s house. “So vague, in fact, that it only shows that Neswick must have been knocked pretty hard when Moxton’s servant hit him with the gun.”
“What was the description?” persisted Cardona.
“Well,” recalled Tharbel, “all that Neswick could see was flashes of an automatic. He felt himself lifted up, but everything was black while he was being carried downstairs. When Moxton opened fire from the top, he saw more flashes from the bottom. Then he imagined that he saw a lot of darkness move and spread like it was human. A black ghost — that’s all that Neswick could describe.”
Tharbel was staring along the road as he spoke. He was turning the car to bring it alongside of Moxton’s house. Hence, the famous county detective did not see the gasping look that appeared upon Joe Cardona’s face.
Yet in his remembrance of Neswick’s blurred description, Junius Tharbel had given Joe Cardona final assurance that Neswick’s story was a true one. The mention of a black ghost — a phantom shape that vanished before bewildered eyes — was all that Cardona needed.
The defeat of four armed henchmen by one lone fighter was explained to Joe Cardona’s satisfaction. The star detective had gained a positive hunch of his own. His lips silently framed the name of the being whom he was sure had won that fray:
“The Shadow!”
CHAPTER X
THE SECRET ROOMS
JUNIUS THARBEL offered Joe Cardona a piece of chewing gum as the two detectives entered the old Moxton house. Cardona refused, with thanks. Tharbel calmly chewed the gum himself. The steady, even motion of his jaw seemed to add to the hatchet-faced man’s complacency.
A State policeman greeted the visitors. He started to draw Tharbel aside to speak in confidence. The county detective restrained him with a gesture.
“This is Detective Cardona,” he said by way of introduction. “He’s from New York. Whatever you have to tell me, he can hear.”
“It’s about that prowler we saw last night,” explained the policeman. “I thought we’d better have an extra man on duty in case the bozo comes around again.”
“What prowler?” questioned Cardona, turning to Tharbel.
“I forgot to tell you about that,” returned the county detective, in an annoyed tone. “I don’t regard it as important, anyway. We’ve got to expect prowlers. Morbid-minded people like to come around a place like this.”
“The guy was funny-looking enough,” volunteered the State policeman. “I heard him near the house; I flashed a glim on him. He was going toward the old shed out back. When he saw the light, he went hopping away. He was all legs, that guy, with a midget body.”
“I don’t think you’ll see him again,” decided Tharbel. “Don’t worry about an extra man.”
“You can’t be too sure about it,” remarked Cardona.
“I’m handling this case,” announced Tharbel abruptly. “You may be right about prowlers in New York. Out here, they’re different.”
He paused and looked about the hall. He pointed to a spot just within the door.
“This is where Neswick gave his note to the servant,” explained the county detective.
“What note?” inquired Cardona.
“The one that Harlew gave him,” returned Tharbel. “It was sort of an introduction card to Moxton. It was just signed ‘Mox.’ I told you about it at the office.”
“No, you didn’t,” declared Cardona testily.
Tharbel was on the verge of an angry utterance. He restrained himself, Cardona broke the tension with a new query.
“What became of the note?” he asked.
“One of the servants took it upstairs,” replied Tharbel, in a surly tone. “He must have left it up there, with Moxton. Neswick says he came back and ushered him upstairs. That’s what I’m going to show you — the whole layout, and all that happened, as Neswick remembers it.”
“All right,” agreed Cardona.
IN a matter-of-fact fashion, Junius Tharbel began the tour of inspection. The State policeman followed as the rural detective led his New York colleague through the old house.
“Neswick was brought upstairs,” declared Tharbel, as the pair ascended the steps. “He was taken to this room” — the speaker paused until they reached the living room at the end of the corridor — “and he waited here, a short while. He saw the dog lying in that corner. It growled at him.
“Then he was brought back to the center of this corridor. That’s when the first shots came — from the living room. There seemed to be a fray beginning there. Neswick grabbed the servant here. The fellow clouted him with a gun. Then the servant got his — from the living room.”
Tharbel indicated the spot where the body of the servant had been found. He led Cardona slowly toward the stairs.
“Neswick was carried,” he described, “and the man who rescued him was firing. One of Moxton’s servants was dropped here, another on the stairs. One rolled clear to the bottom. That was the last one.”
“Four in all?”
“Yes. Four. But there may have been another — in addition to Moxton himself.”
“Why?”
“The firing, Neswick says, came from the living room. There’s a little room off it. One man may have gone in there and come out later. There must have been two people to start the shooting match in the living room.”
“Where was Moxton?”
“I’ll show you.” Tharbel’s eyes gleamed wisely. “This is one of the tips that Neswick gave us. While he was here” — Tharbel turned to point out the center of the corridor — “it looked as though the servant was going to take him to some hidden place. See these panels along the wall? Well, we tried them, and this is what we found.”
Tharbel worked at one of the panels. It slid open. The county detective used a flashlight to show a long, narrow room, which resembled a corridor. The room was entirely empty. It was about five feet in width and twelve in depth.