Meanwhile, chancing it that Powell had not come, the old man was on watch for him, while Grady was searching at the hotel. Grady must have come in while Harry was waiting. There had been some queer ducks entering the hotel at that time. Harry recalled that Powell's manner was a give-away, when he had come down to the desk. Harry noted that Stuart Bruxton was tall and somewhat like Powell in appearance, except that he lacked Powell's rather gawkish manner.
Assuming that neither the old man nor Grady had ever seen Powell, Stuart would have answered the general description. But in the lobby, Grady must have recognized the man they were really after.
Piece by piece, Harry figured that Grady had dashed back after the murder, carrying the papers. The old man had been waiting at the bridge. He had gone back and set the house on fire.
Then Grady had helped him across the breach.
Now, Harry recalled that he had met a single car, a mile before the fork in the road. That might have been the two men of whom Stuart spoke.
Harry had left the Burnham House after he had viewed Wallace Powell's body. But he had felt shaky and uncertain. He had never dreamed that the trail of the murderer would lead directly to that spot where Powell was awaited. Grady, speeding ahead, had increased his lead.
"My car!" said Stuart suddenly. "It's back there on the island — wrecked — "
"And rifled, probably," remarked Harry, thinking of the old man during Grady's absence.
"What did you have in it?"
"A suitcase — in back. That lock would be easy to break. I guess they took it and the license plates, too. If they got the bag, they know who I am."
"Where were you bound?" questioned Harry.
"Up to Massachusetts, to see some friends."
"Your family?" Vincent questioned.
"Not many in it. They're all abroad."
"Then if no one knew what became of you — "
"If no one knew!" interrupted Stuart indignantly. "Say, I want everybody to know! I'm going to get those murderers — "
"That's just it," interposed Harry. "I'm out to get them, too. Remember, murderers is what they are. You're the only man who can identify them. You're safe if they think you're dead.
"When we've talked this over, I think you'll agree that you're safer working with me, and that you'll have a better chance of seeing them landed, than if you go to the police."
"You're the boss," replied Stuart quietly. "You hauled me out. I'd be a bum sport if I didn't play the game the way you want it."
Harry Vincent grinned in the dark. He liked this chap. He believed that he would be a good man working for The Shadow. That could be settled after they reached Baltimore.
The night had started well — then had come failure. But that one incident — the purloining of Wallace Powell's road map — had turned disaster into gain. There were two men to be traced.
Harry had descriptions of both, and knew the name of one.
More than that, Harry had rescued a man who would prove useful in this campaign.
Tonight, a full report would go to Rutledge Mann — a record of events that would reach The Shadow. That report would state the simple fact that Harry Vincent had foiled one fiendish crime that the enemy had planned. And then, Harry knew, The Shadow would act!
Chapter VII — Death after Dark
An old man sat alone in the somber dining room of an ancient house. He was at a table, munching his food methodically. At times, he chuckled to himself. Something evidently amused him. The old man's expression was deceiving. The changing moods which passed over his features were mingled with signs of doddering senility and traces of uncanny shrewdness. His mutterings were coherent only to himself. They ceased suddenly as a middle-aged woman entered through a swinging door.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Chadwick?" she asked.
"No, Martha," said the old man, in a harsh voice. "I shall be finished with my meal, directly. Then you can go."
"I'll wash the dishes," said the woman. "That will only take me a few minutes. There'll be plenty of time for me to get home and cook dinner for the folks."
"You're a busy lady, Martha," chuckled the old man. "You're a good cook, too. The best I ever had!"
"Thank you, Mr. Chadwick. I'm glad to work for you. It's very convenient, sir, that you always take dinner at five o'clock in the afternoon. It's an early hour, sir, and if it wasn't for that -
well, I guess I couldn't get here. My own family has to eat, you know."
"One should dine a few hours before retiring," declared the old man. "It is an excellent habit. There are good habits as well as bad ones. I always retire early. Therefore, I dine early."
"Well, sir," said Martha, "you may be right. But when one has men folks coming home from work, that's when dinner has to be gotten ready. Half past six is our time. That goes on Saturdays, too. Let the others grumble if they want to; my husband works until half after five every weekday. He's the boss."
"He's a hard worker," commented the old man. "Henry Birch was always a hard-working man."
"Yes," replied the woman proudly, "but he likes good times, too. He's taking me to see a picture show, tonight. We're going in to Philadelphia."
"Why to Philadelphia?" queried Chadwick. "Chester is much closer by."
"Yes, but the pictures are much better in Philadelphia. We always go there on a Saturday night, Henry and I. We're always in time for the nine o'clock show."
The old man laughed as he arose from the table and walked slowly from the room. The woman, clearing the dishes from the table, shook her head as she heard him chortling from the stairway.
"A funny sort, Grant Chadwick is," she commented, half aloud. "Fussy, too — but it's not hard to work for him. Clean up house in the morning; cook a meal in the afternoon. Outside of that, he takes care of himself.
"Gets his own breakfast. Then I cook his dinner. He always makes out alone on Sundays, and I'm glad of it. Gives me one day away from this place. Spooky old house, too."
The woman resumed her soliloquy after she had carried the dishes to the pantry. There, engaged in washing the tableware, she added a few remarks to her former ones.
"It wasn't so bad around here when young Mr. Denby used to live in the place. A good sort, young Denby Chadwick. Put up with a lot of nonsense from the old man. Small wonder he moved out.
"He likes his old uncle, though — leastwise I reckon he does. Comes to see him once in a while. I wish he was here more often. He seems to liven the place."
The woman finished her work in a few minutes. She went into the front hall and called a good night up the stairs. There was no response, but she seemed to accept that as a matter of course. She went from the house, closing the front door behind her.
Upstairs, Grant Chadwick was dozing in an armchair. He always took a short nap after his frugal dinner.
Although he was a man of considerable wealth, neither his habitation nor its furnishings betrayed the fact. His house was a decadent building on the outskirts of the city of Chester, in a place called Eddystone, ten miles from Philadelphia. The house was isolated, the nearest buildings being some deserted shacks near the railroad.
Grant Chadwick liked solitude. He had retired from business years ago, and now derived an excellent income from certain holdings which he possessed. Yet he was miserly to the extreme, unwilling to part with anything he owned.
The furnishings of his home were not only cheap, they were inadequate. Only a few of the rooms were fit for occupancy. All of old Chadwick's wealth rested in safe-deposit vaults; and the great percentage of his income was hoarded away with his investments.
The old man awoke from his doze and nodded mechanically. He looked about the room in a solemn manner.