An hour passed. Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker arose. Both stated that they were due at their respective homes. In Southfield, a city of small size, the suburban districts could be reached very quickly. Although the departing men called cabs, they could have walked home without great effort.
Townsend Rowling remained. A widower, with no children, he lived at the Crucible Club. As he chatted with Lamont Cranston, the bank owner proudly told how he had instituted this club.
“Why don’t you come up here to live?” he queried. “You will find it more pleasant than the hotel.”
“Perhaps I may do so later,” responded Cranston. “For the present, I am staying at the hotel because I have given it as my local address. I am expecting calls from there tonight. I am apt to receive telegrams from New York at any time.”
“Ten thirty,” observed Rowling, glancing at his watch. “Getting rather late for business calls.”
“I think I shall call the hotel,” decided Cranston. “Perhaps they have neglected to forward any messages.”
Rising, Lamont Cranston strolled out into the lobby of the club. He entered a phone booth to apparently make a call. He stepped out and took a chair in the lobby. To all appearances, the line had been busy.
Actually, this had been a pretext to move away from Townsend Rowling. The local bank owner, coming from the card room, had encountered friends — exactly what The Shadow had anticipated. Townsend Rowling had gone his own way, expecting to see Lamont Cranston later.
The Shadow waited. His keen eyes watched the clock above the entrance.
Twenty minutes of eleven.
The bell rang in the phone booth. The doorman saw Lamont Cranston rise to answer it. He supposed that this was the reply to a call put in by the guest.
“Hello.” The greeting came in the voice of Lamont Cranston. “This is the Crucible Club.”
“I want to speak with Mr. Cranston.” It was Cliff Marsland on the wire. “Is he there?”
“Report.” The word came in a whisper from the lips of Lamont Cranston. Its tone was the sinister note of The Shadow’s voice.
“All quiet,” came Cliff’s information, “Hiram Marker came in half an hour ago. It doesn’t look as though this place is the one picked for tonight.”
“Relieve Vincent,” came The Shadow’s order.
“Instructions received,” was Cliff’s reply.
Lamont Cranston’s tall form cast a weird silhouetted shadow upon the floor of the lobby as the New Yorker emerged from the phone booth. Cliff Marsland’s report had been due at half past ten. So had Harry Vincent’s. The Shadow had calculated that one would be sure to come; but not both.
FOR tonight, Cliff and Harry were each watching a strategic spot. The Shadow had decided that one of two places would be picked for crime. Those places were the homes of Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker.
Outside of Townsend Rowling, those two were the only men of wealth and importance in Southfield. Their homes were the ones that criminals would pick. Slade Farrow’s trio of assembled crooks had gone out on business. The Shadow had placed watchers at each strategic point.
Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland — after half past ten, one was sure to be safe. That would be the first man to call; and Cliff had telephoned, some minutes later. There was no use waiting for a call from Harry Vincent. His tardiness required prompt investigation.
The Shadow had dispatched Cliff to that job. His own action was to follow. The doorman looked up as Lamont Cranston approached. He heard the New York millionaire speak in a quiet tone.
“I am going back to the hotel,” came Cranston’s words. “Inform Mr. Rowling if he asks for me.”
The clerk nodded as Cranston strolled from the Crucible Club. Cranston unlocked his coupe and entered. His hands opened the suitcase. Black garments appeared as he withdrew them.
Again, this personage who played the part of Lamont Cranston was assuming the sinister garb of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIII
THE RAID
RUTHERFORD BLOGG’S home was a hedge-surrounded mansion on the outskirts of Southfield. Harry Vincent, watching for events here, had stationed himself within the hedge, at a secluded corner.
He had seen Rutherford Blogg come home in a taxi. Still watching, Harry had glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch to note that the time was approaching half past ten.
It was then that Harry had decided upon a rapid inspection before putting in his call to The Shadow. There was a filling station not far from Blogg’s home. It would serve as the place from which to phone. With this thought in mind, Harry had begun a circuit of the house.
Creeping along through darkness, Harry had reached a sun porch at the side of the building. A trellis-work went upward to the second floor where a lighted room proclaimed Blogg to be present. It was by the shelter of the porch that Harry had stopped to listen.
Someone was on the side lawn. Harry could hear the motion of cautious figures. He could not make out men in the gloom, but from whispers that he caught, he decided that the group must consist of three.
A warning utterance. Motion stopped. It became a waiting game. Seconds ticked by into minutes, while Harry Vincent, crouched by the sun porch, watched the darkness. Three men — somewhere near the house wall — so did Harry speculate. Then came a surprise.
A wiry man leaped from the lawn and landed on Harry with a ferocious plunge. The Shadow’s agent sprawled. Clutching hands grasped his throat. Gasping, Harry slumped helpless. He had no strength to cry out as a handkerchief was jammed between his teeth.
THE man who had made the sudden onslaught knew how to gag a victim. A guarded light flickered above Harry’s eyes as two other men approached. Half-conscious, Harry dimly caught the muffled conversation while his captors pinioned his arms and legs.
“Great work, Hawkeye. You spotted him all right.”
“I could hear him breathin’. That’s why I told you to wait, Skeets, while I snook up on him.”
“What’ll we do with him, Tapper?”
“Leave him here. You know the orders. We’re after the gravy — not out to give a guy the bump.”
“Right. What next?”
“Me for the roof.” It was Hawkeye who whispered. “Lay low and get the signal.”
Craftily, the little crook climbed the trellis-work. He found it strong enough to bear his weight. He knew that it would do for the others also. He reached a flat-topped roof, surrounded by a rail. Hawkeye climbed over and snapped his fingers above the ledge. It was the signal to come on. The others followed.
On the roof, the silent trio could see through the lace curtains of a pair of French windows. They were looking into Rutherford Blogg’s bedroom. The manufacturer was seated in shirt sleeves, going over papers at a table. The watchers saw that the heavy-jowled man was well away from the French windows.
Tapper produced a jimmy. His assumption that the doors were locked was correct. The workmanship that followed was a tribute to Tapper’s skill. Prying noiselessly, the jimmy-artist managed the locks so cleanly that Rutherford Blogg did not notice the noise until Tapper was ready for the final twist.
As the manufacturer sprang to his feet and faced the window, Tapper forgot caution to deliver a final pry. The windows snapped open. As Tapper swung aside, Skeets, his face masked with a blue bandanna, leaped across the threshold brandishing a revolver.
Blogg’s gray face whitened. The manufacturer nearly slumped as he backed toward the wall. Skeets approached him; Hawkeye, also masked, remained just outside the windows, ready to aid Skeets if necessary.
Blogg was completely cowed. Hence Hawkeye made no effort to join Skeets. He stepped aside to allow Tapper to enter. The jimmy-worker had adjusted a handkerchief to hide his features. He strode into the room and grinned as he spied Rutherford Blogg’s portly, quaking form.