Keen in intuition, The Shadow had guessed the truth; that the stolen casket had reached the hands of another who did not know its secret. A new trail had opened; one that The Shadow would follow on the morrow.
CHAPTER VII. THE CREEPER MOVES
NOON the next day. Two men were standing in the city morgue. One was Tobias Clavelock, dry-faced and solemn; the other a stocky, swarthy-faced man from headquarters. This was Acting Inspector Joe Cardona, long recognized as the ace of New York detectives.
The two were viewing the dead body of Myram, stretched on a sliding slab. Clavelock was nodding as he studied the rigid face, distorted from the pangs of sudden death. The lawyer was sure of the murdered man’s identity.
“That is Myram,” he announced. “He was the servant who was dismissed from the Doyd household. I should like to know who murdered him, inspector.”
“So would I,” grunted Cardona. “We’ll get a trail on the killer, now that you’ve assured us that robbery was the motive. It didn’t look like robbery when we found the body this morning. Money in the dead man’s pocket — a cheap, poorly furnished room—”
“But no sign of the ebony casket.”
“None. Of course, there’s still a chance that Myram may have gotten rid of it some time ago; or even a chance that he never did have it. Just the same, the odds are that robbery was the game. Myram may have sold some stuff he stole from old Mr. Doyd. Anybody seeing it might have thought he had more.
Maybe he was flush with dough at times. If you could describe any of the missing articles, outside of that casket, it would help us.”
“Perhaps I shall be able to do so, inspector. I shall talk to Miss Theresa Doyd, when I visit the house this afternoon. You may expect a telephone call from me later.”
IT was after three o’clock when Clavelock arrived at the Doyd mansion. The day was cloudy and dull; the front of the old building looked like the bulwarks of a gloomy fortress. Wilfred admitted the lawyer; Clavelock stepped into a hallway that was already lighted, so somber was the interior of the mansion.
Architects had been stingy with windows during the decade when this house had been built.
Clavelock asked for Theresa. Wilfred ushered the lawyer into the reception room; then departed. Some minutes later, Theresa entered to greet the visitor. Clavelock came abruptly to the business that had brought him here.
“Myram is dead,” he announced. “Found, murdered, on the third floor of a cheap rooming house on the East Side. I have seen the body; no one else will be required to identify it.”
The girl stared aghast. The thought of Myram’s death made her pity the dishonest servant. She made no comment; it was Clavelock who brought up the subject of the ebony casket.
“There was nothing of value found in Myram’s room,” stated the lawyer. “No sign of the ebony casket. I talked with a police inspector; he wants a description of any other articles Myram may have stolen. Can you recall any of them, Theresa?”
The girl shook her head.
“No,” she replied, slowly. “Grandfather kept most of those trifling curios locked away in his room. I seldom saw them; I merely knew that he owned them. Odd cuff links, antique bracelets — other trinkets of that sort. I believe he had some silver statuettes; but I do not know what they represented.”
“Would Wilfred know about those objects?”
“No. I asked him. Like myself, he seldom saw them. Myram must have found the key to grandfather’s closet; and also learned how to open the drawer of the large table.”
“Too bad, Theresa, that we can give the police no further information. However, they intend to search for Myram’s murderer; and they may be successful in finding him. I am going out of town this afternoon, so I called that reporter chap, Burke. He has promised to write a story about Myram’s death; of course, it will be mentioned that the fellow was once a servant here, but Burke will see to it that Myram’s thefts are not mentioned in the newspapers.”
Clavelock bowed himself from the room. Theresa followed to the front door. As Clavelock started down the steps a coupe pulled up to the curb. A horn honked; the lawyer looked about to see Donald Shiloh alighting from the car.
The two men joined Theresa at the front door. After brief greetings, Clavelock told Shiloh the facts that he had mentioned to Theresa. The lawyer went his way; Shiloh and Theresa entered the house and went into the reception room. The girl stared about as she entered; then pressed her finger to her lips and motioned for Shiloh to close the sliding doors. That done, Theresa pointed to the door at the back of the room. It was ajar. Shiloh closed it.
“YOU were in here with Clavelock?” he questioned, in a whisper. “Do you think that some one could have been eavesdropping?”
The girl nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I do not recollect that door being partly open. Some one could have been listening, Donald. I may be mistaken; but— but—”
She buried her face in her hands and tried to restrain convulsive sobs. It was plain that Theresa’s nerves were on edge. Shiloh approached and spoke quietly, his tone comforting.
“You heard the footsteps again?” he inquired softly.
“Last night,” nodded Theresa. “Creeping, all about the house. They stopped abruptly, Donald. After that, I did not hear them again.”
“Mark Lundig was here?”
“Yes, but he retired early. Uncle Egbert was asleep, also. That is, both of them may have been asleep; on the contrary, either one may have been awake.”
“Where was Wilfred?”
“On the third floor.”
“Has he heard the footsteps?”
“I have not asked him. I think he would have mentioned the creeping to me, though, if he had heard it. But Wilfred is somewhat deaf.”
“Yet you depend upon him? With his deafness?”
“Of course. Wilfred hears loud sounds quite easily. He always answers the doorbell promptly; and I can summon him at any time by pressing any of the bell-buttons that connect with his room. There are several of them, you know.”
“Where is Lundig, at present?”
“He went out somewhere. Probably to meet those detectives whom he has hired. He has been very mysterious lately; acting wisely, as if he thought himself to be a sleuth.”
“And Uncle Egbert?”
“He is somewhere about the house.”
Shiloh paused, just as he was about to make another statement. He raised his hand for silence. Theresa listened. To their ears came a creaking sound, from somewhere in the hallway.
“Is that the creeping?” whispered Shiloh.
Theresa was intent; for a moment she hesitated. Then she shook her head as the sound came closer.
“I— I don’t know,” she gasped. “No — it sounds different from the creeping that I heard last night. This noise is coming closer. Listen, Donald! It sounds as though it is on the stairs!”
Shiloh sprang to the sliding doors and shoved one open. He stepped out into the lighted hall, to see a figure on the stairway. It was Egbert Doyd; the sickly-looking uncle turned about and stared at Shiloh.
“HELLO, Egbert,” greeted Shiloh. “We thought we heard you going by. Just wanted to tell you that Clavelock had been here. With news about Myram. The fellow was murdered.”
“Has the ebony casket been found?” inquired Egbert, sharply.
“No sign of it, uncle,” replied Theresa, coming from the reception room. “I am sorry you were not about when Mr. Clavelock was here.”
“I was asleep in the library,” snapped Egbert. “You should have called me. Bah! No one thinks of me about this house.”
With that, Egbert turned and made his way upstairs. His gait was fairly rapid; if he had been responsible for those slower footsteps, it must have been a sign that he had moved slowly past the reception room door, perhaps to listen there.