For a long instant the two men eyed each other steadily. The room was silent; then came the muffled clanging of a locomotive bell — the Night Express at the Southfield depot a few blocks away.
GRIFFEL turned as though about to leave. Almost by chance, his eye spied the crumpled sheet of newspaper lying in the wastebasket. With a leap, the heavily-built man sprang forward and seized the tell-tale sheet. He stared at it; then turned quickly toward Farrow.
“Where did you get this?” demanded Griffel.
“What is it to you?” challenged Farrow, stepping forward with clenched fists.
“This,” snarled Griffel. His hand came from his pocket, bringing a revolver. “Move back there, wise guy. Answer clean. Where did you pick up this newspaper — a couple of years old? Down at Legrand’s store?”
“You would make a competent detective,” scoffed Farrow. “Your deduction, my dear chap, is quite correct. I found that newspaper at my new store; I used it to wrap up a coat that I brought back with me.”
“This paper?” ridiculed Griffel. “Maybe. Maybe not. Edge over to that wall. I’m taking a look in the closet.”
Keeping his gun trained on Farrow, Griffel moved toward the closet. He yanked the door open and threw a quick glance within. Farrow was watching him tensely. For a moment, the ex-convict thought that the intruder would not discover the box. Then Griffel, in another quick glance, happened to notice the odd tilt of the hat on the shelf.
With a rapid move, the broad-shouldered man shot his hand beneath the hat and came out with the green metal box. A fierce grin appeared upon his face as he examined his find. His hard eyes focused upon Slade Farrow.
“Where did you get this?” quizzed Griffel. “Answer or I’ll fill you with lead.”
Farrow shrugged his shoulders in resigned fashion. His voice was low and calm as he replied.
“If that’s what you’re after, you’re welcome to it,” asserted the ex-convict. “I found it down in the basement of the old store, while I was examining the furnace. I wondered what it was and I brought it up here.”
“You found it by the furnace?”
“On the furnace. Wedged under a heating pipe.”
Farrow’s tone was convincing. Griffel pocketed his revolver and placed one hand upon the knob of the outer door.
“Legrand was a crook,” he affirmed, coldly. “Anything like this doesn’t belong to him — and what doesn’t belong to him isn’t yours. Get that?
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll attend to your knitting. Just forget that I ever came around here. Mind your own affairs if you want to get along in Southfield—”
Griffel’s growl broke as Farrow, with a sudden spring, came catapulting across the room just as the broad-shouldered man was opening the door. Before Griffel could yank out his gun, Farrow was upon him.
The green box bounded out into the hall and clattered on the floor as Griffel met the attack. For a moment, Farrow’s bull-like charge gave him the advantage. Griffel hurtled back against the wall inside the doorway. Then the powerful intruder caught his antagonist in a viselike grip.
They wrestled wildly. A chair bounced against the bureau. Griffel caught with a hold that raised Farrow toward the ceiling and sent the ex-convict in a heap upon the floor just within the doorway.
Leaping to the hall, Griffel grabbed up the box. Pulling his revolver from his pocket, he aimed savagely. Murder was in his eye. Slade Farrow, senseless on the floor, was at the point of death.
BEFORE Griffel could press the trigger, a man leaped from a doorway down the hall. It was Harry Vincent.
The Shadow’s agent had heard the commotion. He saw murder in the making. He was springing to the rescue. A helpless man at the mercy of a potential killer was sufficient cause to intervene.
Griffel sensed the leap. He turned in time to meet Harry’s onrush. His powerful shoulder caught The Shadow’s agent in the chest. Swinging his gun, Griffel grazed the top of Harry’s head. The two men, locking, staggered toward the stairway.
The box shot from Griffel’s arm and bounded down the steps. His left hand free, Griffel dealt a sudden blow to Harry’s chin. The Shadow’s agent sprawled upon the floor while Griffel leaped madly down the carpeted stairs. Rising groggily, Harry almost gained his feet; then slumped and lay in a daze. All was silent in the hall. Slade Farrow was lying motionless within his doorway.
There was an open exit to a fire tower at the end of the hall. It showed dull light from the city lights. Suddenly, that low glow was blackened out. Two burning eyes stared from the darkness.
A figure emerged. It was that of a being garbed in black. The Shadow had arrived. Knowing that his agent would be awaiting his arrival, the master of the night had chosen this means of entrance.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow advanced. He reached Harry Vincent’s crumpled form and lifted the husky young man with a single arm. Easily, The Shadow bore Harry through the open door into Room 301. Seeing that his agent was recuperating, The Shadow let him rest upon the bed.
Moving swiftly, The Shadow headed for Slade Farrow’s room. He bent above the unconscious form and noted that Farrow, like Harry, was no more than stunned. Keen eyes spied the crumpled sheet of newspaper upon the floor close by the wastebasket. A low laugh came from unseen lips as The Shadow stepped forward to examine this piece of evidence.
The old newspaper passed out of sight beneath the folds of the black cloak. The Shadow’s keen eyes noted the hat in the closet, flopped upside down upon the shelf, where Eric Griffel had tossed it.
Another laugh — a hollow whisper that made no more than a soft echo in that room where action had ceased. The Shadow stooped and drew Slade Farrow’s huddled form inward. The man moved slightly as The Shadow stepped through the door and closed the barrier behind him.
The blackened figure reached the fire tower. It merged with outer darkness. The Shadow had arrived too late to frustrate this quick pair of combats in which Eric Griffel had bowled out two antagonists.
Yet The Shadow had a clear idea of what had occurred. He knew that Slade Farrow had been robbed of spoils. He knew that some powerful intruder had made a getaway. He knew that this combatant had broken loose from Harry Vincent’s clutch.
Avoidance of gunfire, in Harry’s case, had been a natural move on Griffel’s part. The intruder had gained what he sought. Murder of an intervening hotel guest would have been an error.
The Shadow was gone; not long afterward, the silhouette that marked his presence came stretching inward across the lobby floor of the Southfield House. It was not a figure in black that cast that sinister streak of darkness. The Shadow was here in other garb.
He had chosen the guise of Lamont Cranston. Tall, well-dressed and quiet of demeanor, he approached to sign his name upon the hotel register. A bell boy was bringing in two suitcases which this new guest had left upon the sidewalk.
Crime and countercrime! Such were the events that stalked in Southfield. Ferris Legrand’s hidden treasure had been uncovered by Slade Farrow. An intruder had wrested the find from the ex-convict.
The Shadow knew the truth. He knew also that this could be but the beginning of a coming struggle. A man of Slade Farrow’s ilk would not be balked by temporary defeat.
It was The Shadow’s game to wait. Here, in Southfield, he was prepared to solve the mystery of crime and countercrime!
CHAPTER VIII
MEN MEET
HARRY VINCENT awoke and rubbed his jaw. It was morning. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, Harry recalled the events of last night.
He remembered a battle in the hall. A knock-out blow that had left him groggy. After that, he remembered his return to consciousness. He had gone out into the hall, had seen no one, and had staggered back into his room.