His inability to foresee the future made Ferret's mind swing to the past — to the last day on the yacht, when they had drank the health of Judge — to the instructions given him by Major — to his defiance of those orders, and the resulting fight at Antrim's.
Judge was finishing his work at the desk, and Ferret's thoughts were miles away. His half-closed eyes were picturing the wounded form of Daniel Antrim, the menacing figure of Solly Bricker— Then, into Ferret's mind, came speculation over the strange outcome of the fray.
It was a matter that had troubled him ever since he had read the first report in the Detroit newspaper. Who had brought the battle to its strange ending? Who could have entered to deal death and destruction — then to escape before the police arrived?
As though endowed with clairvoyance. Ferret was visualizing someone in back of the grim game at Antrim's — a figure of power and of vengeance. As Judge began to speak, Ferret brought himself back to his surroundings, and the momentary vision faded from his mind. Ferret was laughing at his own fears. Yet in that moment, he had been near to the truth. Safe from gangdom, safe from the law, Ferret could not be free from a man who knew both — yet worked with neither.
Crafty though Ferret had been, his escape and his new environment could not remain unknown to The Shadow!
Chapter VI — The Work Begins
Weeks had passed since Ferret had come to Middletown. Despite its location in a thinly populated region of the Middle West, the city was used to strangers, and it was an easy matter for a newcomer to become accepted there.
Ferret had learned this. Living in a downtown rooming house, he had made many acquaintances, and was now a settled resident. Moreover, he had a job — one that presented attractive possibilities. Ferret was a teller in the Middletown Trust Company, the bank situated in the center of the block he had noticed on his first day in town. He represented the first of a new group of employees who had slowly been engaged during a minor reorganization of the bank's staff.
On this particular day, Ferret was busy at his window, conducting himself in typical teller fashion. Ferret looked back and forth with sidelong glance, and grinned as he sat behind his window. A depositor, approaching the window, mistook the grin for a pleasant greeting, and waved his hand in a friendly manner.
"Hello, Mr. Hawkins."
"Good afternoon," responded Ferret.
With the customer gone, Ferret's grin continued. He looked to his left, where the other teller's window was located. A small sign by the grated window bore the legend:
Mr. Ellsworth
Ferret glanced at the man behind the window. Ellsworth was a new teller here. He and Ferret had become but recently acquainted, as far as Middletown knew. But the big bluff face was one which Ferret knew well. George Ellsworth — known to Ferret as Butcher.
Across from the barred windows was a desk that bore the sign:
Mr. Exton
Cashier
There was Major, seated at the desk, discussing a loan with a local business man. Major made a good banker, Ferret decided. He might have been a cashier all his life, as far as observers were concerned. Ferret and Butcher, tellers, were capable ones, but not so effective as Major, the cashier. Yet the three could not compare with the austere individual who was now entering the private office in the corner. He was the banker par-excellence.
David Traver
President
Judge looked the part. He was built for that position. He was the most outstanding bank official that Middletown had ever boasted. No wonder, Ferret thought. Judge had been here for a long while, rising in the affairs of the community.
The rest of the bank workers were local talent, chiefly girls. Their positions were of a clerical nature. The other officials of the bank, excepting Judge, were men of small caliber, who depended entirely upon the wisdom of the president, who had brought success to their local enterprise.
The doors of the bank were closed now. It was after three o'clock. Business had not been heavy, and it took Ferret only a short while to finish up. Waving to Butcher as he passed, Ferret left by the front door of the bank, the old watchman opening the big gate to allow the teller's passage. On the street, Ferret nodded cordially to several persons he passed. People were friendly in Middletown.
Ferret sauntered past various stores, and turned the corner as he came to the downtown end of the block. He glanced at the sign upon a plate-glass window. It read:
Middletown Funeral Parlor
A man was standing behind the window. He had a gloomy, melancholy air, his face pale in contrast to his black frock coat. He was wearing a pointed collar, with a black bow tie. His expression was ministerial. He seemed content with his environment.
Wrapped in his thoughts, the undertaker paid no attention to Ferret's sidelong gaze. Ferret laughed to himself as he continued up the street. The man who presided over the Middletown Funeral Parlor was none other than Deacon.
Ferret was chuckling with admiration. If Judge made the ideal bank president, Deacon was certainly unsurpassed as a funeral director. Ferret remembered the day — not long ago — when Deacon had made his debut here.
The funeral parlor had been for sale. Deacon had arrived in town, to look over the business situation. He had immediately arranged to purchase the place.
Now, Howard Best was the new Middletown undertaker. He had started in enterprising fashion. A shipment of modern caskets had arrived in town to replace the antiquated coffins which had made up the former stock.
Ferret lounged along the street, and finally reached the house where he lived. He was to dine at the home of the bank president. Others would be there, and after dinner, Ferret expected a most important discussion.
It was six o'clock when Ferret wended his way to the residence of David Traver. The bank president was a bachelor, who lived alone. He had made it a habit to invite certain of his employees and associates to dinner, on occasion. Tonight, Ferret, respected under the name of Joel Hawkins, rubbed shoulders with some of the elite of Middletown.
One man, in particular, engaged his interest. That was Harvey Bronlon, who was the most important man in Middletown.
Bronlon had become a great factor in the life of the community. That was apparent from the conversation that passed between him and Judge during dinner — conversation to which all listened with intense interest.
"There are great days ahead for Middletown, Mr. Bronlon," declared Judge, in an impressive tone. Bronlon nodded his massive head. A huge bulk of a man, he looked like an overfed lion. He stared about the group with eyes that peered solemnly from beneath overhanging eyebrows.
"If Middletown is progressing," he said, "such capable men as you are to be thanked for it, Mr. Traver."
"No," said Judge, shaking his head in a kindly manner. "A bank merely reflects the prosperity of the people, and adds to the stability of the community. It is a man like you, who possesses enterprise, that brings progress."
Bronlon seemed pleased by the compliment.
"So far," he declared, rather proudly, "my foresight has been realized. When I built the big central block a year ago, every one doubted its possibilities. Look at it now, Mr. Traver. Every footage of front is occupied. Your bank is there. The County National holds a corner. We have the largest store in town, two restaurants, an undertaking establishment—"
He waved his hands to indicate that his property was all rented.
"Remarkable forethought, Mr. Bronlon," observed a guest. "I have often wondered where you have gained your keen knowledge of the future."