The Creeper!
AGAIN the name flashed through Theresa’s brain. The girl glanced toward Mark Lundig. He could be The Creeper. He could have visited the library an hour ago, worked on his stolen list, then started back upstairs. Hearing Theresa coming down, he could have gone into the reception room and waited there until she had passed; then come to join her after she had entered the library.
Theresa gazed at her Uncle Egbert. He was oddly active to-night, more so than Theresa had ever believed he could be. He could be The Creeper. He might have come down; gone into the reception room; then returned upstairs — silently — before Lundig had come down.
Theresa realized suddenly that she might not have heard new footsteps had they occurred while she was in the rear hall.
Wilfred was moving noiselessly about. He was a well-trained serving man, always quiet when occasion demanded. A new suspicion startled Theresa. Had Wilfred been The Creeper?
He had gone downstairs at six. He could have prowled then; and later, shortly before seven, when Theresa had heard the strange footsteps for the second time. Wilfred could have gone through the dining room to the kitchen. That would account for the sudden finish of The Creeper’s footsteps.
Baffled, the girl felt troubled. One lone determination gripped her. The next time she heard The Creeper’s footsteps, she would call for promised aid. From the telephone in her own room, Theresa would summon Donald Shiloh, bringing him here at once to help her solve the weird and terrifying mystery.
CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW MOVES
THE CREEPER had moved. Not unheard — but unseen, as was his chosen way. The Creeper — whoever he might be — was a master of peculiar craft. He knew the illusion that sound created; the difficulty that listening ears would find in locating it. By magnifying or decreasing the shuffle of his footsteps, he baffled listeners and carried them from his actual trail. Such tactics made The Creeper more ominous than if he had been totally unheard.
Six o’clock had been the time when Theresa Doyd had first heard The Creeper in the old mansion, on this particular evening. The girl had not guessed the purpose of his prowling, although she suspected that he might be searching the house in hope that the black ebony casket had not been taken by Myram.
For Theresa was sure that The Creeper knew the value of that casket; and by that time — six o’clock — the news of Myram’s death was known to all New York. Clyde Burke had followed Tobias Clavelock’s tip. He had told reporters on the evening newspapers that they would find a story at the morgue.
Down in the vicinity where Myram had lived, murder talk was rife. Neighbors were discussing the former butler’s death; the sallow lodger at the rooming house had mentioned the visit of an old man with a cane.
His description of Montague Rayne had been a poor one, however. The elderly stranger had been standing in the darkness when the sallow lodger had first viewed him; and the light in the third floor hall had been too dim for close scrutiny.
Since the old man had given no name; since his identity remained unguessed, the police had not profited greatly by his description. Joe Cardona, in his hunt for Myram’s murderer, was depending upon stoolies for information. Detectives and policemen had been hereabout all day; but with the arrival of evening, none remained.
It was eight o’clock, by the timepiece in the window of the meat store on the side street. Around the corner, the lights of the little pawnshop glimmered beneath the gloomy bulk of the elevated.
The man behind the counter, however, was not Soaker. The proprietor had not been here to-day. A substitute had opened the shop; he was a lanky, gum-chewing youth who sat on a high stool and stared out toward the gloom of the avenue.
A man came into the pawnshop, moving quickly. The substitute bobbed from his stool as he recognized the sallow, nervous face of Soaker. The proprietor swung around the counter and put a quick question.
“Been trouble around the neighborhood, Bill?”
“Sure,” responded the youth. “Some dub was bumped off. He lived in a rooming house around the corner.”
“Any coppers been in here?”
The youth shook his head.
“All right, Bill,” decided Soaker. “Here’s your pay. Slide along; I’ll run the place this evening.”
The substitute departed. As soon as he was gone, Soaker began preparations to close for the night. He intended to close the pawnshop in a hurry; he had kept it open during the day only to avoid suspicion.
WHILE Soaker was engaged behind the counter, he heard some one enter. He turned quickly, then expressed relief as he saw a furtive-looking customer, a little man with a wise face above sweatered shoulders.
This was Hawkeye. The Shadow’s spotter had been on watch outside the pawnshop, waiting for Soaker’s return. Hawkeye had put in a prompt call to Burbank; at present, he was following further instructions. From beneath his sweater, he pulled out a green card and passed it across the counter.
“How much is owin’ on this?” inquired Hawkeye, eyeing Soaker sharply.
The proprietor looked at the card. His lips twitched. It was the ticket that he had given Myram last night.
Hawkeye grinned wisely. He had expected this effect, ever since he had received the card from The Shadow.
“Where — where’d you get this?” demanded Soaker.
“From a pal of mine,” responded Hawkeye. “He told me to bring it around here. Said you’d know about it.”
Soaker shoved the card back across the counter, getting rid of it as he would a burning object.
“I don’t know nothing about it—”
“It’s the McCoy, ain’t it?” grimaced Hawkeye, picking up the card. “One of your hock tickets, with the name of this joint on it?”
Soaker nodded reluctantly; then, rubbing his chin, he asked:
“Did Dopey send you here?”
“Sure,” returned Hawkeye. “Who else would have?”
“Going back to see him?”
“Maybe. Got anything you want me to tell him?”
“Only to stay away. I don’t want to see him. That’s all.”
Hawkeye had shifted to an inner corner of the pawnshop. Soaker was watching him; hence the proprietor did not see the opening door. A new figure was entering; one cloaked in black.
Silently, The Shadow edged toward the side wall, away from outside observation. The door closed behind him.
“Dopey wants to talk with you,” Hawkeye was telling Soaker. “If you don’t want him to come here, maybe he can—”
He broke off suddenly and turned in feigned alarm. Soaker followed suit; but his fright was real. Both men stared into the muzzle of an automatic, held in a gloved fist. Burning eyes were fixed upon the pair.
“The Shadow!”
It was Soaker who blurted recognition. He had heard of The Shadow; he knew the dread that the cloaked master inspired throughout the underworld. Grim fear gripped Soaker, for he had dealt with crooks, even though he was not actually one of their number. He believed Hawkeye to be a friend of Dopey’s; that was sufficient to make Soaker sure that he had incurred The Shadow’s wrath.
SILENTLY, the black-garbed intruder stepped forward. A gloved left hand stretched forth and plucked the incriminating pawn ticket from Hawkeye’s hand. The little spotter winced; he spoke in hoarse protest.
“It ain’t mine!” he exclaimed. “Honest! It ain’t my ticket. It belongs to Dopey—”
Hawkeye broke off, almost defiantly. Soaker, trembling, saw the fierce blaze of The Shadow’s eyes. He was quick to add statements of his own, hoping to gain mercy for himself.
“That’s right,” he quavered. “It — it was Dopey who stole the ticket. Dopey Delvin; he took it off of a guy he bumped. It was Myram who soaked the signet ring. Dopey seen him here and went around to bump him.”