Then to bed, still feeling the effects of the encounter. Harry was a trifle perplexed; moreover, he was fuming at his own inability to cope with the enemy who had so easily overcome him.
An envelope fluttered to the floor. Harry reached down and plucked it from the carpet. He opened the message and read its blue-inked coded lines. The message faded word by word.
Instructions from The Shadow. Harry realized now that his chief must have arrived immediately after the encounter in the hall. Harry tossed paper and envelope in the wastebasket. He dressed and left the hotel room.
It was shortly after noon when Harry strolled into a restaurant on the main street, almost directly opposite the Southfield Athletic Club. As he seated himself at a table, Harry noticed a man sitting close by.
Husky and broad-shouldered, his face hardened, this fellow impressed Harry at once. He was positive that this was the man whom he had battled in the hall. He happened to meet the gaze of his ex-antagonist. Harry repressed a smile. The other man had not recognized him.
This was logical. Harry had made the attack. His opponent had not caught more than a passing glance at Harry’s face. Harry turned his gaze in another direction and paid no attention to his erstwhile foeman.
THE broad-shouldered fellow was leaving the restaurant as Harry approached to pay his lunch check. The manager nodded cordially. Harry put a question.
“Who is that fellow?” he asked, nodding toward the door.
“You don’t know him?” The manager looked surprised.
“I’m a stranger here,” returned Harry.
“So I can guess,” laughed the manager. “Everybody in town knows that fellow. His name is Eric Griffel. We all call him Griff. He runs the Southfield Athletic Club.”
“He looks husky,” commented Harry.
“Husky?” The manager grinned. “He could lick any three men in this town. Don’t ever pick a quarrel with that fellow. He has plenty of friends.”
“Members of the Athletic Club?”
“Yes. A fine bunch of boys. We don’t have any trouble with crooks here in Southfield. We’ve got a good enough police force — there’s nothing against Chief Kerr, you understand — but we owe a lot to Griff and his club.”
“What are they? A sort of vigilante committee?”
“That’s it. They don’t get rough very often, though. They look over any strangers who arouse their suspicions. Rowdies and bums don’t stay long in Southfield. Smooth crooks keep away from this city, too.”
Harry was still going over these remarks as he left the restaurant. This placed a new angle on the situation. Harry knew that Slade Farrow was a man under suspicion. The Shadow had set Harry to watch the ex-convict.
Evidently Eric Griffel, local champion of law and order, had gained an inkling that Slade Farrow was of criminal intent. Although he had not learned the reason for the quarrel between Griffel and Farrow, Harry now began to see the light.
Strolling back to the hotel, The Shadow’s agent seated himself at a writing desk in the lobby and inscribed a short note with his own fountain pen. He went up in the elevator to the third floor; then took the stairway to the fourth.
Under the door of Room 401 he thrust the sealed envelope which contained the report he had just prepared. This was a message to The Shadow — an aftermath of orders which Harry had received. He had been told to keep tabs on anything unusual in Southfield and to report in disappearing code.
Harry felt a sense of confidence to know that The Shadow was here in person. He was sure that The Shadow’s present personality must be an assumed one. Nevertheless, it was unusual for The Shadow to be as close to his agent as this. Harry felt that it was a reward for his long period of faithful effort in The Shadow’s service.
OUT on the street, two men were walking directly toward Eric Griffel as the latter was nearing the steps of the Southfield Athletic Club. One of these men was Slade Farrow; the other was his attorney, Norton Granger. It was the latter who hailed Griffel. The husky man approached.
“Hello, Griff,” greeted Granger. “I want you to meet a client of mine — Slade Farrow. He’s just bought out the Southfield Clothing Shop. Mr. Farrow, this is Mr. Griffel.”
“Glad to meet you, Farrow,” expressed Griffel, extending a brawny arm. “Any friend of Norton Granger is a friend of Griff’s.”
Farrow received the handclasp and returned it with a grip as tight as Griff’s.
“Glad to know you,” said the ex-convict. “Hope to see you down at the store, Griff.”
The husky man smiled. Farrow countered with the same expression. Norton Granger seemed pleased at the exchange of friendship.
Not for one instant had Norton Granger suspected that these men had met before. He would have been amazed had he known that the pair whom he had introduced had been engaged in violent conflict on the night before.
It was not until the young lawyer and his client were about to move along that evidences of antagonism were delivered. Even then, Granger did not detect the signs.
A sneering leer appeared upon the face of Slade Farrow. It was the ex-convict’s expression that he feared no future encounter. In return, Griff showed a warning stare, a token that his persistent vigilance would not lessened.
Although these signs were not noticed by Norton Granger, they did not escape a stranger who was passing. A well-dressed stranger, tall and of quiet demeanor, chanced to observe the trio. He was close enough to view and hear all that passed.
There was no change in the passer’s expression. He sauntered up the street and crossed to the Southfield House. As he reached the entrance of the hotel, he turned. A smile appeared upon his thin lips.
Eric Griffel was still standing on the steps of the athletic club. Slade Farrow was parting with Norton Granger at the doorway of the Southfield Clothing Shop.
A soft laugh came from the thin lips of the observer. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had divined all that was in the air. He had learned, in an instant, that Eric Griffel must be the man with whom Slade Farrow had battled. He knew that Griffel must be suspicious of the ex-convict; that Farrow, in turn, was ready to meet the husky vigilante’s game.
The laugh died. With lips a straight line, his face almost expressionless, his tall form leisurely in gait, The Shadow entered the Southfield House.
Men had met today. The Shadow had seen that meeting. He had learned facts which he sought, even before receiving the report from Harry Vincent!
CHAPTER IX
MEN OF WEALTH
EVENING had come to Southfield. Guests were lounging in the lobby of the Southfield House. Some were chatting, others appeared to be mere loungers.
Slade Farrow appeared in the lobby. He walked over to the desk and spoke to the clerk. His tone was loud enough to be heard a short distance away. A lounger caught the statements.
“I’m checking out tomorrow,” informed Farrow. “Sorry to leave you, but I’ve got a little apartment over my clothing store and I might as well use it.”
“Very well, Mr. Farrow,” returned the clerk. “We hope you have enjoyed your stay here.”
“I have,” stated Farrow, “By the way — do you have a telegraph blank?”
“Yes,” said the clerk, “and I can send the message.”
“Good.”
Farrow received the blank and wrote out his telegram. Just as he was finishing the message, another guest stepped up to the desk to make an inquiry. It was Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent had timed his arrival at a moment when the clerk was busy. This gave him the opportunity he needed to catch a glimpse of the wire that Farrow had written.