“He got rid of the scroll… Yeah, Kobal did… To-night. That’s when… Handed it to an old geezer who gave him five grand… Sure. I remember the name: Montague Rayne… That’s right. Montague Rayne. I said Rayne — not Wayne… Begins with an R; that’s right…
“The cops? Yeah, they’re here. They finished Wally and Steve… Yeah, both of them; but they won’t get me… What’s that? Not a chance. I’ll shoot my way out of here if I have to… Don’t worry; nobody will be wise. They won’t know you were in it, Zimmer…”
Hal hung up. Steadily he arose, and drew a revolver from his pocket. His gold teeth glittered as he formed an ugly grin. He walked to the door and opened it. He stopped short at sight of a stocky, swarthy-faced man who was standing in the center of the room, holding a gun while he ordered Townley and Tom to cease their scrambling for quarters.
Hal snarled; he knew the arrival’s face: Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector at present. Even a race-track tout would know Joe Cardona.
JOE heard the snarl; he straightened on the instant, aiming his revolver instinctively as he saw Hal draw a bead on him. The tout’s finger was on the hair trigger when Joe Cardona fired. The quick shot that jabbed from Joe’s stubby gun was the only move that could have stayed Hal’s murderous purpose.
Like Wally and Steve, Hal had come here to kill. He had been stopped before; he was stopped again.
He wavered; his trembling finger lacked even the trifling strength that was necessary to yank the hair trigger. Knees gave way; the boastful tout floundered and sprawled upon the floor.
There were other bodies about. Those of thugs; of Wally and Steve. But this final addition brought a last hush to the fray. Townley and Tom stared with drawn faces. Joe Cardona turned to them, after a look at Hal’s dead face. The ace detective spoke soberly.
“He’s no gorilla, that fellow.” Cardona shook his head. “If he had been, he’d have quit. This was his first try at murder. It’s the new ones who are the toughest sometimes. They’re after blood; they don’t calculate. Too bad I had to shoot him; I wouldn’t have had a chance, if I hadn’t.”
As Cardona said, it was “too bad.” Not that Hal had died; for the tout had deserved his fate. But in dropping him, Joe Cardona had unwittingly performed a service for The Creeper, arch-foe of the law.
He had cut off the last link between to-night’s attempted crime and Zimmer Funson.
Had Hal — or his pals — remained alive to blab Zimmer’s name, one of The Creeper’s chief lieutenants would have been put in a bad spot. The Shadow had left those possible informants alive; policemen and Joe Cardona, to save their own lives, had been forced to finish the careers of all three.
Moreover, Hal had passed the word to Zimmer. The news would reach The Creeper. That supercrook would gain the name of Montague Rayne; thus he would know the person to whom Jerry Kobal had passed the precious scroll of parchment.
The Creeper’s thrust had succeeded, despite the loss of three henchmen. The Creeper would regard it as a real success; he cared nothing for a trio of Zimmer’s touts.
New opportunity for The Creeper. A new quest — the search for Montague Rayne, the unexpected factor who had entered the game. Yet The Creeper’s path would not be smooth. There was still a power with whom he must contend. The Shadow had rescued Jerry Kobal, despite Hal’s belief to the contrary.
Whatever The Creeper had learned, The Shadow would know also.
Keen, crafty, his very identity unknown, The Creeper remained formidable. But there was one who moved as cunningly as he; one whose love of justice was greater even than The Creeper’s urge for evil; one whose ways were also hidden beneath the cloak of darkness.
That one was The Shadow, whose might had prevailed to-night; that super being whose prowess could conquer all odds.
CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW KNOWS
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed. Dinner had ended at the Doyd mansion. Only Theresa and her Uncle Egbert had been present while Wilfred had served the meal. Theresa had conversed but little; after dinner, the girl had gone upstairs to her own room. Egbert had merely stated that he might go out for a short walk.
Silence was heavy in the old house; so heavy that it seemed appalling. Theresa had fancied that she had heard a ring of the front doorbell. Wondering, she had opened the door of her room and left it a trifle ajar. Perhaps that was why she had sensed the thick silence of the mansion. The hush was ominous.
With foreboding, Theresa went to her door and listened. As she waited, dreading what might come, she heard the sound that she had almost expected. It was a creeping that occurred suddenly below; that same, uncanny noise that she had heard before.
The Creeper!
Again, he was moving about in eerie fashion, his very location impossible to guess. Trembling, Theresa stole along the second-floor hall, to listen at the top of the stairs. The creeping continued; yet its intensity never changed. Front hall — rear hall — library — dining room — even the reception room: any one of those spots could have harbored the terrifying creep of unfaltering footsteps.
The creeping ended. It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Theresa in a total quandary. She knew that The Creeper was below; but where he had gone, what he was about — these were factors that she could not even guess. Theresa knew only that she needed help. The upstairs telephone offered that opportunity.
Stealing back to her own room, Theresa softly closed the door and picked up the telephone. Before she could speak, she heard two voices talking. One was Mark Lundig’s; the other a gruff tone that Theresa had never heard before.
But the girl knew at once that Lundig must be in the house. The other extension of the telephone was in the library. Lundig was using that line to make an outside call.
The conversation had just commenced; Theresa was sure of that because she first heard Mark Lundig saying:
“Yes — this is Mr. Lundig.”
Then the gruff response:
“I thought it was you, Mr. Lundig. I’ve got some good news for you. We located Montague Rayne.”
“What?” came Lundig’s quick reply. “Have you seen him?”
“No,” responded the gruff voice, almost sourly. “He was staying at the Torrington; but he checked out. We’ll trace him, though, unless you want to do it—”
Lundig interrupted sharply.
“Is some one on this line?” he inquired. “It sounds that way to me.”
“Maybe it’s just a poor connection,” suggested the gruff voice. “Wait while I signal the operator.”
THERESA heard a receiver hook click violently. Quickly, she hung up while the noise was still in progress, knowing that the sound of her dropping receiver would not be heard during the clatter on the wire.
She waited tensely; then decided to go out into the hall again. She reached the top of the stairs and listened for a full two minutes. All was stillness during that interval.
Then came the creeping again — slow, steady, terrifying. Theresa was sure that it must be at the back of the hall; for the first time, she gained an actual impression of its location. The creeping was coming from the direction of the library; its destination, however, was impossible to guess. Particularly because it stopped abruptly.
The Creeper was below. Lurking somewhere in the rear hall. Waiting there, listening perhaps.
Theresa trembled; almost mechanically she tiptoed back to her own room. Again she closed the door; this time she locked it. In desperation, she again picked up the telephone. This time she heard nothing but the zing of the dial tone. Mark Lundig had ended his conversation with the gruff-voiced man.
Nervously, Theresa dialed Donald Shiloh’s number. She could hear the ringing of the bell; then a receiver was raised. The solemn voice of Jeffrey answered. Theresa knew the valet’s tone; she spoke quickly.