Here Farrow made a sharp U-turn. He swung the big car back in the direction of Southfield. The motor purred as the sedan emerged from the woods and sped along the straight highway beside the railway tracks.
FARROW’S return was none too soon. Five minutes after his start on the homeward journey, the roadster came sweeping back through the wooded highway. Its occupants had gone as far as Gwynnesborough. Losing Farrow’s trail, they, too, were coming back to Southfield.
A few minutes after the sedan had swept by the opening of the rocky road, Harry Vincent’s coupe came along at a rapid clip. The Shadow’s agent, too, had lost the trail. He had new business back in Southfield.
The garage man was taking away the sedan when Harry Vincent pulled up in front of the Southfield House. The roadster had idled along the street to the Southfield Athletic Club. Its occupants had left it.
As Harry walked across the sidewalk toward the hotel, he heard, far away, the distant blare of a locomotive whistle. The Night Express was coming into Southfield. Harry’s face became grim. He sensed action in the offing.
Strange events had brewed tonight. Slade Farrow’s odd trip from town; the young men trailing him by roadster; Harry Vincent also in pursuit. These were just the beginning.
Harry Vincent, as he stepped into Room 301, still wore his steady look as he plucked a yellow telegram from his pocket. The message was a simple one that had come from Rutledge Mann this evening. It gave instructions to leave by the Night Express unless business could be done in Southfield.
Harry Vincent intended to stay; not because there was business in Southfield. The message had a significance that only Harry understood. The reference to the Night Express meant an arrival, not a departure.
It was the secret statement that the Night Express would bring another personage to take up the work that Vincent had commenced.
Within the next quarter hour, The Shadow would be in Southfield!
CHAPTER VII
THE SHADOW ARRIVES
HARRY VINCENT had closed the door to Room 301. He was satisfied that Slade Farrow was in Room 309. The man would keep until The Shadow appeared. Harry felt that the best plan was to lay low for the present.
Hence Harry had no track of events in the other room; nor did he have an eye out for activities in the hall. These factors were to prove important in the consequences which were coming.
In Room 309, Slade Farrow was standing by a bureau. He had unwrapped the package. The metal box showed dull green against the oak woodwork. Rusted hinges of unpainted metal showed that the container must have rested in its hiding place for a long time.
A crafty smile showed on Slade Farrow’s firm face. That smile was a flicker of the past. The ex-convict looked like his former self. He was Sam Fulwell, living over that night in the penitentiary when Ferris Legrand had lain dying in the bunk below.
A shaft of moonlight came through the opened window. The dark, clouded night had changed. The silvery beams cast a glow upon the floor beside the window — a recollection of that same illumination which had shone upon Legrand’s last night of life.
Ferris Legrand!
Slade Farrow’s visage hardened. His expression might have meant that he felt remorse because his cellmate was not here to share in the recovery of this box. On the other hand, it might have indicated a secret satisfaction that Legrand was dead. Emotions were hard to trace upon Farrow’s steadied countenance.
Whatever Farrow’s feelings, one point was obvious. The ex-convict had made use of the secret that Legrand had revealed to him. The hiding place of the green metal box was the knowledge that the former merchant of Southfield had told to no one but the cellmate whom he knew as Sam Fulwell.
From his pocket, Slade Farrow removed a bunch of keys. These were of varied shapes and sorts, from heavy instruments to thin-bladed tools. It was one of the latter that Farrow used on the box. The lock refused to turn.
Farrow produced a small oil can and introduced a few drops. Again he worked with the thin-bladed key. The lock opened. Rusty hinges squeaked as the top of the box came upward.
A sheet of wadded newspaper showed inside the box. Farrow pulled it loose. He unfolded it, then tossed it to the floor. It was here merely as protection to the documents that lay beneath. Farrow withdrew a long envelope; then a folded paper that looked like a deed; next, a printed certificate.
A knock at the door. Slade Farrow’s face showed perplexity. For a moment, the man hesitated; then, with quick motion, he replaced the documents and closed the box. The lock closed automatically.
There was a closet near the door of the room. Farrow stepped in that direction. With his left hand, he thrust the green box upon the shelf and toppled a hat over it. With his right hand, he unlocked the door of the room. Opening the barrier, he stepped back.
A STRANGER stood in view. The man was short, stocky and well-dressed. His broad shoulders and heavy hands were evidences of a powerful physique. His face, though square-shaped and brutal, showed a keenness that troubled Slade.
“What do you want?”
Farrow snapped the question as a challenge. The newcomer edged his way into the room and deliberately closed the door behind him.
“I’ve come to see you,” growled the visitor. “Stranger in town, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” retorted Farrow. “I’ve just taken over an old business here in Southfield.”
“I know it,” asserted the stranger. “The Southfield Clothing Shop. That’s what I’ve come to see you about.”
“You’re in the same business?”
The broad-shouldered man scowled at the question. He eyed Farrow narrowly.
“My business is my own,” he growled. “You’ll find out more about it after you’ve been around here a while. Southfield is a place for straight-shooters. You’d better be one if you want to stay here, Farrow.”
Slade Farrow had backed leisurely across the room. His gaze was cold as he surveyed the intruder. He noted that the man’s eyes were glancing suspiciously about the place. Farrow indulged in a contemptuous smile.
“Who are you?” he cut in, with a voice as hard as the intruder’s. “In places where I’m used to being, visitors usually have the courtesy to introduce themselves.”
“Griffel is my name,” returned the intruder. “Eric Griffel — known as Griff. I’m a reception committee of one in this town. I look over the palookas who blow in here. There’s no phony customers in Southfield.”
“And why,” questioned Farrow, in a sarcastic tone, “have you come to regard me in the light of an undesirable settler in Southfield?”
“I’ll tell you why,” retorted Griff. “The man who used to run the business you bought turned out to be a crook. Maybe the atmosphere might have the same effect on you.”
“Trouble seems to be your business.”
“I look for it.”
“Go ahead. Look.”
Farrow calmly seated himself in a chair and lighted a cigarette. Griffel lost no time in accepting the sarcastic invitation. The broad-shouldered intruder peered about the room, making no pretence in his action. Turning, he gave a sharp glance at Farrow; then peered quickly beneath the bed.
“Ah!” Farrow was ironical as he puffed at his cigarette. “You think I’m smuggling Chinese into Southfield, eh?”
“Never mind the lip.” Griffel paused as he turned. “If you’re on the level, you’re welcome in Southfield. If you’re pulling something, you’re going to be watched. That’s all.”
“Thanks,” sneered Farrow.