“Your brother-in-law was not successful in business?”
“He was successful,” responded Marker, in an uneasy tone. “He owned the local electric plant; after his death it was mismanaged. My sister was very ill — she died within the year — and the business would have been a total failure but for my intervention.
“Fortunately, I was able to supply funds to save it. I took over the stock — it was almost worthless at the time — and managed to bring the business back to a profitable basis.”
“Very fortunate,” observed Cranston.
Marker did not catch the irony in his guest’s tone. Cranston could see the lack of sincerity which governed Marker. He knew well that the wealthy man had probably made enormous gain through the transaction.
The telephone bell rang on Marker’s desk. The waterworks owner answered it and passed the telephone to his guest.
“A call from the hotel,” he said.
“Hello.” Cranston’s voice was quiet. “I see… Yes… You will be there all evening… I understand… Yes… Thank you for calling… No, never mind calling me when they leave… If there is anything else important, telephone me here…”
BACK at the hotel, Cliff Marsland hung up the receiver. He turned and shrugged his shoulders as he faced Harry Vincent. The two agents were in Room 301. Across the street they could see Dave and Louie loading big packing cases into Farrow’s truck.
“We’re to stay here,” declared Cliff. “Keep on the lookout for anything unusual.”
Slade Farrow was locking up his store. Cliff and Harry saw the man stroll down the street toward a theater. The loading of the truck was completed. Dave took the wheel with Louie beside him and the vehicle pulled away.
New crime was coming. Strolling vigilantes who watched Slade Farrow had no inkling of it. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland scented trouble, but were not sure that it would fall.
Only The Shadow foresaw the facts of coming crime. He was at the spot where it was due to strike!
CHAPTER XV
HAWKEYE MEETS THE SHADOW
HIRAM MARKER was loquacious as he chewed the end of a fat cigar. The bald-headed man of wealth had reverted to the subject of robbery at Rutherford Blogg’s. He was soliloquizing on his friend’s stupidity.
“A house full of servants!” he exclaimed. “Yet they let three men go in there and open a safe like it was a toy bank.”
“The robbers were lucky to escape,” observed Cranston.
“They never should have made a getaway,” decided Marker. “Fancy it — out through the side door and away in a car that was parked on the other side of the hedge.
“Well” — Marker smiled sourly — “it was Blogg’s own fault. Counting on an old-fashioned safe up in his bedroom.”
“I understand that it was hidden behind the paneling.”
“So it was. In the very place where they would be apt to look for it. I don’t blame Blogg for keeping valuables in his house. I do the same. Take a look at my vault over here.”
Marker led the way to the alcove. He pointed out a massive vault door, set in a steel frame. It was locked with heavy cross-bar and adjustment wheel.
“Seventy-five hundred dollars,” boasted Marker. “That’s what I paid for the door alone. The framework is set in concrete. No smart crook is going to open that door. It’s one that used to be in the old bank. I had the vault built to fit the door.”
“Quite formidable,” observed Cranston.
“Rowling has one like it at the bank,” declared Marker. “He uses it for special funds — apart from the big vault that the bank uses. His smaller vault is in the basement. Of course, he has time locks. Now my vault—”
Marker had turned while he was speaking. He was facing the doorway of the room, beyond the spot where Lamont Cranston was standing. The bald-headed man broke off suddenly. His lips moved but gave no utterance.
Cranston turned toward the door. He saw what had caused his host’s consternation.
WITHIN the study were three men, all masked with bandanna handkerchiefs. Two were tall; one was short. All three held revolvers.
Marker’s arms went up as though impelled by a spring. Cranston’s followed at a leisurely speed. The New Yorker’s calmness was unruffled. He eyed the intruders almost casually. As The Shadow, he had seen these men before. Tapper at the right; Hawkeye in the center; Skeets at the left.
“Keep them covered.” Tapper was speaking to Skeets. “Come along” — this to Hawkeye — “while I crack this vault.”
Skeets motioned with his revolver. Hiram Marker, pale and scare-faced, moved away from the vault door. Tapper advanced, with Hawkeye beside him.
Lamont Cranston’s tall form remained motionless. His eyes were focused upon Skeets. The man with the gun did not meet the gaze. He did not realize that those eyes were studying opportunities. A quick spring — all would be up with Skeets. The ex-racketeer did not know that one of those whom he was covering was The Shadow.
Hawkeye turned suddenly. The little crook’s revolver flashed into view. Hawkeye became tense as he noted Cranston’s face. He backed away from the vault.
“Cover old Moneybags,” growled Hawkeye, to Skeets. “I’m takin’ care of this guy. There’s two of ‘em. That means two of us on the job.”
Skeets complied. He had a respect for Hawkeye’s intuition. While Skeets covered Marker, Hawkeye stepped back and kept his gun pointed at Cranston’s tall form. Hawkeye’s gaze was unrelenting.
Some hunch had told the little crook that this calm-faced personage was a menace. Crafty to the utmost, Hawkeye intended to leave no loop-hole for an escape. His finger rested on the trigger of his gun.
Lamont Cranston appeared unperturbed. His first glance told that Hawkeye’s vigil would be a steady one. Cranston’s head turned. His eyes watched Tapper, as though interested in the safe-cracker’s boasted cracksmanship.
Hawkeye had stated that he had once trailed The Shadow. Had he noted the glint in Cranston’s eyes, he might have had a recollection of the past. The firm, chiseled countenance with its aquiline nose was unfamiliar, however, to Hawkeye. He gained no recognition.
Tapper was finding the vault formidable. His growl showed his disapproval. He worked on the combination with smooth, steady fingers; then stepped back and shook his head.
“It’s going to be a job to crack this safe—”
“Yeah?” The interruption came from Hawkeye. The little crook spoke while his eyes remained fixed upon Cranston’s profile. “That ain’t goin’ to be a job. I’ll tell you the way out. Work on Moneybags.”
“That’s an idea,” chuckled Tapper. “Try it, Skeets.”
The ex-racketeer nodded. He jammed the muzzle of his revolver into Marker’s bulging stomach. The fat man winced. Skeets growled as he thrust out his chin.
“Give us the combination,” he ordered. “Come on — spill it!”
Marker hesitated.
“Come on!” rasped Skeets. “There’s hot lead in this gat.”
Marker’s lips moved. Tapper caught their mumble. He chuckled when Marker had finished. Tapper stepped back to the vault. He worked on the combination. He revolved the wheel and raised the bar. The heavy door swung open on its perfect hinges, as smoothly as though made of cardboard.
LAMONT CRANSTON’S eyes were watchful as Tapper produced a bag. He saw stacks of banknotes drop into the sack. He noted that Tapper, though working swiftly, was examining all the swag. A bundle of bonds dropped into the bag; then odd lots of documents. Tapper picked out a small stack of papers encircled by a rubber band. He dropped this bundle into his inside pocket.
Tapper finished the job in a hurry. The vault rifled, he bundled up the bag. Cranston’s eyes were upon Hiram Marker. The bald-headed man’s face was ashen. Skeets had stepped back. His manner was no longer threatening. Tapper’s actions were the cause of Marker’s pallor.