Such was the law in Southfield. The vigilantes, at the heels of the police, provided heavy reinforcements. More cars were coming. Men were flocking out upon the lawn. The Shadow turned. His tall form disappeared in the darkness.
Less than an hour later, a figure stood within the window of Lamont Cranston’s room. The eyes of The Shadow, peering keenly, saw Slade Farrow’s delivery truck come coasting along the main street, turn a corner and swing to reach the delivery entrance at the back of the store. Piled boxes showed in the rear of the truck.
A soft laugh came from hidden lips. Griff and his men had not returned from the scene of the crime. They were still looking for raiders who had escaped.
Meanwhile, the swag had come to its destination. The Shadow knew where he could find it when he so desired. Raiders with their spoils had come back to roost in Slade Farrow’s store room.
CHAPTER XIV
COMING CRIME
THREE days had elapsed since the robbery at Rutherford Blogg’s. Southfield was in turmoil over the successful foray by a trio of masked crooks. Squads of vigilantes, mustered in as deputies, were on patrol. No trace had been discovered of the robbers.
No one knew the exact extent of Rutherford Blogg’s loss. It was said that the manufacturer had parted with a bundle of cash and negotiable securities. More than that, the robbers had taken various documents that Blogg was anxious to recover — valuables that could be traced and which would be of no value to the thieves.
The looting of Blogg’s safe was the sole topic of conversation about town. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland heard it everywhere. Fortunately, they, like Lamont Cranston, were too reputable in appearance to be regarded as suspicious strangers.
Slade Farrow, in his store, chatted with customers and heard their theories. Since it was known that Farrow had bought out the business with cash, he, too, was above suspicion. There was one man in Southfield who might have picked Slade Farrow as sponsor of the crime, but that lone individual had very good reasons for looking elsewhere.
Eric Griffel was the man. Oddly, his previous suspicions of Farrow were the reason why he was lulled at present. Through his vigilantes, Griffel had been keeping close watch on Slade Farrow. As a result, Farrow needed no alibi at present.
The ex-convict had been watched constantly on the night of the robbery. He had been at the Southfield House until an hour after the commotion at Blogg’s; then he had gone to his store to open the delivery entrance for a shipment of goods that had come in on the Night Express.
Farrow had played a clever game — one far too subtle for Griffel to discern. The very openness of his methods had been Farrow’s safeguard. Griffel, though still watchful, was not ready to risk a challenge. So far as Farrow was concerned, he kept vigilantes on duty watching the new merchant. That was all.
When he dropped in to see Norton Granger regarding the bonding of the clerk whom he had sent to Gwynnesborough, Farrow was not surprised when the young lawyer turned to the present topic of conversation — the robbery at Blogg’s.
GRANGER held to the theory that a band of out-of-town crooks had invaded Southfield and departed with their haul. That seemed to be the accepted opinion.
Farrow agreed with Granger. Their talk turned to the clothing business. Farrow expressed satisfaction with his purchase.
“That store was a good buy, Mr. Granger,” he declared. “So much so that I really feel I should not have obtained it at so low a price. Inasmuch as I reserved certain rights in making the purchase, I feel that I have a privilege which I am free to exert.”
The ex-convict drew a piece of paper from his pocket and laid it upon the desk. Norton Granger stared in surprise. It was a check for one thousand dollars, made out to Mildred Legrand.
“What does this mean?” questioned the attorney. “You have completed the payment for the business.”
“An additional amount,” returned Farrow, with a smile. “It indicates my full satisfaction with the buy. I trust that Miss Legrand will accept it.”
“This is fine of you, Farrow!” exclaimed Granger. “It — well, it means a lot to me. I have seen Mildred a few times since you bought the store. I know that my effort on her behalf has done much to end her former feeling toward me.
“I think she doubted that I could be well disposed toward her. The crime which her father committed against mine still continues as a barrier. It has lessened since you bought the store. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps,” interposed Farrow, dryly, “it will lessen further if you are willing to take credit for obtaining this additional amount. Simply say that you talked it over with me; that you convinced me that the store was worth more than I paid originally.”
With this parting remark, Farrow strolled from the law office leaving Norton Granger in bewildered delight. The ex-convict smiled as he reached the street and turned back toward the clothing store.
Farrow’s smile went through slight changes as the man walked along the street. Passing Griff near the steps of the Southfield Athletic Club, Farrow waved a greeting. Griff’s nod in response was the cause of Farrow’s first change of expression. The next came when he saw his own truck pull up at the door of the clothing store. Dave alighted and Louie came from the shop to help him carry in a big box.
Loadings and unloadings had become an accepted routine at Farrow’s store. Light deliveries at the back; heavy ones at the front. Such was the procedure, and it was so natural that Farrow had no worries concerning his system of criminal smuggling.
IT was after dusk when Lamont Cranston strolled from the Southfield House and hailed a taxicab. Farrow’s truck was absent when the cab rolled by the store on its way to the Crucible Club. Arriving at his destination, Cranston looked for Townsend Rowling. The bank owner was absent; so was Rutherford Blogg. Hiram Marker was the only one of the big three whom Cranston encountered.
“Terrible,” confirmed Marker, in a serious tone, as they seated themselves in the lounge. “This robbery at Blogg’s was an outrage. No trace of the criminals. I doubt that the miscreants will be found.”
“Why?” queried Cranston.
“Because,” asserted Marker, “they would be fools to tackle Southfield again. The only satisfaction that can be gained from their raid is that we are safe from crime for a while. No other crooks would risk a second attempt in this vicinity.”
“Where is Blogg tonight?” asked Cranston.
“At home, I believe,” declared Marker. “Rowling is at the bank, I understand. I expect to go to my own house for an eight o’clock dinner. Could you come with me, Cranston?”
“I should be pleased,” rejoined the New Yorker. “I must call the hotel first so that I can be reached if any important messages arrive.”
FIFTEEN minutes later, Hiram Marker and Lamont Cranston reached the big mansion owned by the Southfield nabob. Marker was a bachelor. His niece and nephew lived at the house; they dined with their uncle and his guest. To Lamont Cranston, it was apparent that no love was lost between this pair and their uncle. Both niece and nephew left the house immediately after dinner.
Marker conducted Cranston into a sumptuous ground-floor study. While they were lighting cigars, Cranston observed the door of a vault situated in an alcove. He made no comment. Instead, he questioned Marker regarding his niece and nephew.
“My sister’s children,” explained Marker, sourly. “I was appointed their guardian. It is a thankless task, as they have very little money. They are my only living relatives.”