His mind wandered from his objective to thoughts of the purpose that had brought him to Holmwood. What did The Shadow want? What was his interest in the Laidlow affair? Was he a friend of the millionaire’s family or was he in league with the man behind the crime?
Was he working with the police or was he playing some strange game of his own?
These questions bothered Harry. They made him forget Joyce for a time. But eventually his thoughts returned to the man who had received the code from Ezekiel Bingham, and Harry was seized with an uncontrollable desire to get busy.
It was now nearly midnight. Harry left his room and went to the stairway. He descended to the third floor and tiptoed along the hall to the doorway of Elbert Joyce’s room. No light appeared beneath the door. Joyce, likely, was asleep.
Harry tapped lightly on the door. He tapped again - a trifle louder. He hoped that he would not awaken Joyce. He was framing an excuse for the disturbance in case the man might come to the door.
But all was silent.
Slowly Harry turned the knob. He was determined to enter the room, on the mere chance that he might find the message to be decoded lying somewhere accessible.
Harry could take it, copy it, and then return it. There was a real idea, Harry thought. It required care, to be sure, but would be worth the chance.
Within the room, Harry listened for the sound of Joyce’s breathing, but heard nothing. He moved across to the bed, and slowly laid his hand upon the covers. There was no one in the bed.
He walked to the wall and pressed the switch. The electric lights revealed an empty room. The bed was made. No clothes were in view; not even a suitcase was in evidence.
Harry opened the closets and looked beneath the bed. No sign of an occupant. Then he looked at his watch and realized what had happened. Within the last three quarters of an hour, Elbert Joyce had checked out of the inn and had in all probability, taken the midnight train for New York.
Harry returned to his own room somewhat crestfallen. He had not wanted to lose track of Elbert Joyce. It would now be virtually impossible to trail him, for he had been instructed by Ezekiel Bingham to pick some little-known spot for his hideaway. Nevertheless, the bird was out of the nest, and wishes would not bring him back.
Harry, returning to his room, phoned down instructions to be called at eight o’clock. He slept soundly that night, after a half hour of concentration in the darkness, during which time he reviewed the details of the last few days.
In the morning he brought his car from the garage and drove to the city. It was a short journey, but traffic was heavy over the bridge. It was nearly ten o’clock when he called at the office of Claude H. Fellows.
The insurance broker accepted his arrival in a matter-of-fact way, listening methodically, while Vincent recounted his story. He asked that certain details be repeated, then suggested that his visitor wait for further instructions. He opened the bottle of blue ink and wrote a lengthy note that he sealed in an envelope and tendered to the stenographer for delivery. On second thought, he decided that Vincent could step out a while to return later in the day.
At two o’clock, Vincent came back to the insurance broker’s office. The Shadow’s agent invited him into the inner office.
“Compliments and commendations,” remarked Fellows, “are not a part of this business, Vincent. I have learned not to expect them. You must learn as much.
“Hence, I have no comment to offer regarding the information that you have obtained. I sent it to Jonas’s office in synopsis form so that I might receive instructions for you. The instructions have come. You are to return to Holmwood. Leave your car there, and come to New York by rail, prepared to stay for a few days. Stop at the Metrolite, as usual, and report to me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
“But remember, Vincent” - Fellows was smiling knowingly - “if commendation is lacking when you expect it, do not be disappointed. For we make mistakes quite frequently; and when we do, no fault is found with us. That makes things equal.”
Harry arrived at the Metrolite early the same evening. He registered at the hotel with a feeling of satisfaction. For he knew that developments were under way, and in his heart he was sure that The Shadow was pleased with his discoveries.
CHAPTER XVII
BINGHAM SEES A SHADOW
EZEKIEL BINGHAM sat in his upstairs study. The room was on the second floor of the lawyer’s compact home at Holmwood, Long Island. It was after midnight, but the old man did not seem weary.
In fact, Ezekiel Bingham slept very little. He was one of those unusual persons who required very little rest. He had trained himself from youth to be content with four or five hours of repose.
He never went to bed until dawn. He slept during the morning, arising before noon, and only visited his office in New York after mid-day. This was his constant procedure except when he was to appear in court; then he altered his routine in order to meet the occasion.
Hence Ezekiel Bingham worked while others slept. He secretly attributed much of his capability to that fact. The hours of the night were silent ones. They were hours for concentrated action.
Bingham was a widower - his wife had died many years before. His companion in the house was a male attendant named Jenks, who had been with him for years.
Jenks slept on the same floor as did Bingham. He was a powerful fellow, faithful, reliable, and of reasonably good intelligence. A native intelligence, for Jenks’s education had been neglected; he could scarcely read or write.
Jenks was always up before Ezekiel Bingham retired. He was on duty all day and in the early evening. He went to bed when the lawyer came in for the night. Hence some one was always awake and about in the Bingham house.
The night after his secret meeting with the man who called himself Elbert Joyce, the old lawyer had taken his usual evening ride down to Holmwood, leaving the faithful Jenks in the house. Upon his return at half past ten, Bingham had dismissed Jenks. The man was now sound asleep in another room.
But the mere pressure of a button upon the lawyer’s desk would summon the attendant instantly. The buzzer was beside the sleeper’s bed.
The doors and windows were locked downstairs. Moreover, they were arranged with a burglar alarm that would arouse Jenks the moment that any one attempted to enter the house. The alarm system had not been installed in the three rooms on the second floor, but there the windows were barred. The upper part of Ezekiel Bingham’s home looked like a prison; it had had this appearance for so many years that it no longer caused comment among the citizens of Holmwood.
There was a door in the corner of the lawyer’s study. It was sheeted with metal and had a lock of peculiar construction. Behind it was Ezekiel Bingham’s safe - concealed from view at that moment, since the door was closed.
The old lawyer prided himself on a safe of the latest pattern, and well he might, for many of the papers he possessed were of high importance. But it was also a known fact that most of the data that pertained to his legal cases was kept at his office in New York.
It was strange, in a way, that the old lawyer should maintain such a stronghold for he was not known to be a man who had enemies. On the contrary, he was highly esteemed by the criminal world, for he had successfully defended many crooks. The barriers that protected his house were more of a precaution than anything else; for they meant that the lawyer was prepared to resist any attempt at forcible entry, and hence granted his home a definite immunity.
That night old Bingham was going over a pile of papers that he had taken from his safe. He sat half-facing the window, which was slightly open from the top. He was wearing his reading glasses, deeply occupied in his work. Yet, no matter how attentive the elderly man might be, he was susceptible to the slightest noise. That was why he chose to work at night, in the silence of suburban Long Island.