There was more to the message. It kept repeating that one term: “The Knoll.”
Phil wasn’t watching the lights. He was following Harry’s instructions and with results. Down the slope shrubs stirred and it wasn’t wind that swayed them. Furtive shapes began crossing the gray winding path; they had the spotty look of the leopard disguises.
“They’re after us!” Phil told Harry, hoarsely. “No use to go down the path by the rocks; they’ll have that covered sure! Maybe we’d better cut off the slope -”
With Phil’s very gesture, that route proved blocked, for from it came the tiny twinkles of a flashlight. It was Harry who again absorbed the message, but this time the code was The Shadow’s own.
Out of the night The Shadow was telling how to nullify the closing trap that he too had learned about by reading the more distant blinks.
Harry swung to Phil with the statement:
“Let’s go!”
How they were to go, Harry showed. He snatched up the nearest bicycle and swung himself upon it, whereupon Phil did the same with another of the handy vehicles. Then, with Harry setting the pace, they were off upon the maddest flight that the imagination could have wanted.
The path down from the Knoll was as twisty as it was steep. All you had to do with a bike was let it ride and keep steering while you gave the brakes. In this case the braking wasn’t advisable until the danger zone had been passed and there was no telling how soon that would be.
Up from the darkness the curving path flowed like a tangled ribbon unraveling itself beneath the wheels of Harry’s borrowed bicycle. It did the same with Phil’s, for he was keeping close behind this guide who apparently knew the route.
Things happened all the way down. As they whipped beneath some thick trees, knives came from the dark and planked hard into tree trunks. As they skewered around a huge rock, writhing, spotted figures flung themselves down at the intrepid riders and missed.
Greased lightning would have described those whizzing bicycles except at the places where the wheels screeched under the hard-jammed brakes, but even then, the speed was lessened just enough to make the turns.
Guns were barking from far above and now they seemed strangely remote to Phil. This trip had been so fast, so furious, that he hadn’t found a chance to breathe the air that came whining past. And now, with the menace of the leopard men banished, a new disaster threatened.
The path ended at a huge rock, down deep in the dell. Rather, it ran into a cross path, but the rock blocked the way. Harry took a swerve that a trick bicycle rider would have envied and went to the left of the rock. He missed the path of course, but jounced the bike across the ground beyond.
Phil thought that Harry had taken the hard way. The turn to the right looked easier. Phil chose it and scaled out through space. His bicycle left him and he landed with a smacking splash in a broad pond that he hadn’t even guessed was there.
Far around the other side of the pond, Harry Vincent halted his ride and turned to look for his companion. He saw men hauling Phil from the water and the glare of flashlights showed who they were. Not leopard men, but a squad in blue uniforms, representing the police.
Perhaps Phil could explain his wild nocturnal ride, but in a sense it didn’t matter. Harry’s job was done.
From here on The Shadow could take over!
COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON was in a very grumpy mood.
“It’s nonsense, Cranston!” the commissioner insisted. “Claude Older couldn’t have disappeared in Central Park, any more than Winslow Ames! Both men left the vicinity of Central Park instead of going there!”
To prove his point, the commissioner thumbed through the report sheets that Inspector Cardona provided with a corroborating nod.
The report sheets proved all that Weston claimed, but largely because he so interpreted them.
First: Winslow Ames.
The man had made inquiries regarding his Pullman reservation at Penn Station. He had been seen to board the Boston car. After that he had vanished.
“What do you say to that, Cranston?” queried Weston.
“Mistaken identity,” returned Cranston. “A ticket agent and a Pullman porter wouldn’t notice a passenger closely enough to know if somebody else happened to be doubling for him.”
With a snort, Weston tossed over the other report. It concerned Claude Older and stated that he had been met by a very reliable business acquaintance outside the Lookout Cafe. Said business acquaintance had driven Older to Grand Central Station, so he could take a suburban train to visit friends in the country. Older hadn’t been seen since.
“A business acquaintance doesn’t know a man too well,” declared Cranston, “particularly in the dark. I would say that somebody else came out of the cafe and took the ride to Grand Central in the blue coupe.”
Cardona shot a query:
“How did you know it was a blue coupe?”
“Most coupes are,” rejoined Cranston. “A roadster would be flashy, a sedan somber. A coupe is generally between.”
It reminded Cardona of flat tires being more common on the West Side than the East Side. Nevertheless, Joe had to admit that Cranston was right. That applied to minor matters only, for Cardona was still in accord with Weston on the matter of Central Park.
“A hansom cab runs away,” gruffed Weston, “and a man on a bicycle steers himself into a pond. We’ve checked both matters and they concern neither Winslow nor Older.”
That was Cranston’s cue to bow out politely from Weston’s office. At the door, he paused to toss back a query.
“About those missing men, commissioner,” asked Cranston. “What did you say their occupations were?”
“Winslow was buying commercial plastics,” called the commissioner. “Older was studying the South American market for synthetic rubber. If you want to know what the chap who fell in the pond was doing, ask him. He’s waiting outside and you may as well tell him he can go. We’re not holding him.”
Thus it was that Lamont Cranston met Phil Harley, except that he didn’t tell Phil that he was no longer wanted. Instead, Cranston invited Phil to ride up town, adding that it was by order of the police commissioner.
Instead of Shrevvy’s cab, Cranston was using his limousine today and Phil was duly impressed, though strictly silent. It was Cranston who broke the ice with the calm-toned question:
“And just what is your alleged occupation, Mr. Harley?”
Phil’s eyes narrowed at the query.
“Ames was buying commercial plastics,” remarked Cranston, “although there happen to be none available on the market. Older was arranging synthetic rubber shipments to South America which happens to have an oversupply of the natural material. I thought there might be a third connection.”
Steady eyes fixed straight on Phil and this time drew a reply.
“All right,” snapped Phil. “My job is to read over patent reports. Any objection?”
“None at all,” assured Cranston. “How are you progressing?”
“Not so well,” Phil admitted frankly. “They haven’t delivered enough of them at my hotel.”
“So you spend your time looking out the window at Central Park.”
“That’s right. I live at the Sans Souci -”
Phil caught himself and sharply.
“Say!” Phil’s exclamation was heartfelt. “Why did you make that guess about Central Park?”
“It wasn’t precisely a guess,” corrected Cranston. “I was thinking of Winslow and Ames. They seemed to prefer the same neighborhood.”
Phil’s stare became steady as the limousine stopped.
“I’m dropping off here,” stated Cranston. “This is the Cobalt Club. You can reach me here if you wish. My chauffeur will take you to your hotel. It has a nice name, the Sans Souci.”
“It’s French,” explained Phil. “It means ‘without worry’ -”
“I know,” interposed Cranston. “What’s more, I hope you’re living up to it.”