The unseen visitor - if real, as Johnny now believed - could have no purpose other than to steal, or spy. The big man with the underslung jaw could laugh at a thief in the security of his lighted room. He considered himself a match for any one. As for a spy, well, that would be different. Give a spy the opportunity and he would betray his presence.
So Johnny entered his room and closed the door. He sat at the table in the corner, with his back toward the entrance, so that he would be plainly visible through the keyhole. He lighted a long black stogie, and began to whistle softly, while he scrawled meaningless words upon a sheet of paper.
His whistling became abrupt. Every now and then the man at the table became silent, as though some thought had made him forget his tune for the moment. It was during one of these lulls that English Johnny fancied he heard an almost imperceptible noise.
Had he turned suddenly he might have seen the doorknob turning. But English Johnny did not care to turn. He was playing another game.
He imagined that the door was opening - slowly and by small degrees. Opening, perhaps, twelve inches; then closing again. At the instant, English Johnny pictured the door as shut again; he fancied that he heard the slightest sound imaginable.
He still remained at the table; then, with an angry, impatient snort, crossed out everything that he had written.
With a loud, prolonged cough, he pushed his chair back from the table and began to pace about the center of the room. His eyes followed the walls, but they took in the situation at the corner of the room by the door.
English Johnny had tossed his overcoat and hat upon a chair in a corner. That corner of the room was dark and shadowy, for the light was on the table, diagonally opposite. There was space enough for a person to be hidden between the chair and the wall, behind the shelter of the coat.
English Johnny let his eyes roam along the wall above the chair. Not the slightest trace of interest appeared upon his poker face as he observed the shadow that appeared on the wall. It was a larger shadow than that which his coat would cast!
Shadows frightened some people, English Johnny knew. To others, they were laughing matters. But to English Johnny, a shadow might mean the presence of a person.
He had seen proof at Wang Foo’s, when his eyes had noted the long shadow of Ling Chow. Furthermore, he recalled a name that had been whispered among some crooks who had visited his lunch wagon.
“The Shadow!”
Those were the words that came back to English Johnny. And those were the words which a crook named Croaker had screamed and gasped the night that his fellow gangsters had killed him.
English Johnny strolled back to his chair at the table, puffing his cigar in speculation.
The table was a heavy one; to the left of it was an unoccupied space, and then the bed. A good place to hide, that space - because the edge of the table obscured all light.
English Johnny moved his chair back, and, with feigned carelessness, let his pencil drop to the floor. As he leaned to pick it up, he noted the shadow from the space beside him, and calculated the exact distance that it extended from the wall. This was an innocent shadow - a shadow with a straight-edged ending.
Dropping the pencil on the desk, English Johnny took the pen and wrote another letter, to this effect:
DEAR SIR: Your letter came tonight. I am surprised that you will want another week at least, and maybe more, and that you say I must not come to your house until one week from tonight. On that account I will leave town tomorrow or Saturday, and go up State. I will come back next Thursday and will be here at my house on that day.
The writer paused and scratched his head with both hands, as if thinking of something else to say. He walked to the window, raised shade and sash, and peered out in the darkness.
After three minutes he returned to the table. His eyes darted furtively to the floor.
The shadow beside the table had altered! It extended farther away from the wall, and its edge was irregular!
Without looking toward the hiding place that he suspected, English Johnny added a postscript to his note:
I have seen my representative and will not communicate with him until I hear from you. I will spend all my time attending to lunch wagons. JOHNNY HARMON.
Again, English Johnny arose and went to the window. He pulled down the sash and drew the blind. He regarded the wall when he returned. The irregular shadow was still there!
English Johnny sat, while seconds went by, staring at the letter. He was evidently engaged in thought. His mind appeared to be puzzling over some complication.
Finally, he pulled a plain envelope from a pile on the table. He affixed a stamp; then walked beyond the window, carrying the pen. There he hastily addressed the envelope, standing so that anyone beside the table might have observed his action, without being able to see the writing. A chiffonier was beyond the window, and English Johnny used its high surface as a writing desk.
He thrust the envelope in his pocket, went to the door, and put on his coat and hat. Then he left the room, went down the stairs and out into the street. He walked to the mail box and drew a letter from his pocket. He dropped the letter in the box.
The shadows of the houses seemed ominous as he returned from his trip to the corner. Each shadow appeared as a lurking place - a vantage spot from which invisible eyes might be peering. English Johnny sensed this; but when he reached the shelter of his own hall, the feeling had left him.
He locked the doors and walked slowly up the stairs, confident that he alone was in the house.
In his room, he made an inspection behind the drawn window shade. He placed his hat and coat on their customary chair, and studied the shadow which they cast. He inspected the space beyond the chair, he observed that the shadow from the wall was no longer irregular.
“The Shadow!” he said in an undertone. “Perhaps there is such. Perhaps he was here. Perhaps he read my second letter.”
He chuckled.
“I hope he did,” he added. “If he knew where it was going, so much the better. If he didn’t know, he won’t find out.”
From the inside pocket of his coat, English Johnny drew out the envelope that he had placed there a few minutes before. He tore it into shreds, letter and all, and burned the remnants in the ash tray. He turned out the light, raised the window, and scattered the ashes to the wind.
English Johnny was a rather clever fellow. He had dropped another letter in the mail box - an unimportant letter to a manufacturer of lunch wagons - a letter that he had forgotten to mail on his previous trip to the corner!
CHAPTER XXIV
A VISIT TO BINGHAM’S
HARRY VINCENT was back at Holmwood Arms on Long Island. He had spent a busy day. The morning after his experience as a cab driver, he had visited Fellows, and had told him the details of that episode.
In return, Fellows had given him instructions previously received. Harry was to go to Holmwood and report the actions of both the Laidlow family and of Ezekiel Bingham. He was to return as soon as he gained definite information.
Harry had been extremely fortunate. He had reached Holmwood before noon, and had stopped in the cigar store near the post office. Hitherto he had heard little of consequence there, but on this occasion he obtained a veritable mine of information as he listened to the gossip of two old idlers.
“I hear the Laidlows left yesterday,” one old man had said.
“Yes,” another had replied. “That fellow Burgess went with them. Down to Florida, I hear.”
“Servants go along, too?”
“Yes, the whole shooting match. The house is all closed up.”
“Funny they’d leave it that way.”
“No, it isn’t. There ain’t nothing of value there now.”
“What about the furniture?”
“Oh, that’s safe enough. They’ve got a watchman hanging around the place. Besides, you don’t never hear of burglars hitting a place where they’ve been before, do you? They don’t strike twice in one spot. They’re like lightning.”
“Guess that’s right. What else is doing?”
“I hear old Bingham went out of town.”
“Where to?”
“Who knows that? He goes away every couple of months, I reckon. Drove away in his car, I hear.”
“All alone?”
“He’s always alone.”
“That’s right. Did he leave Jenks here?”
“Course, he did. Jenks was downtown here last night.
“I thought he never left the house when the old man was away.”
“He don’t leave it long. I guess the old man don’t know he leaves it at all. He sneaks out, though, whenever he gets a chance. Meets his girl and puts her on the eight-ten train.”
“What! Has Jenks got a girl?”
“Sure. That kid over at the drug store. He meets her outside at eight - that’s when she quits work - and walks with her to the station.”
“Hm-m-m. That’s a good one! Jenks has a girl!”
“It’s straight, though. No use laughing about it. Sometimes old Bingham lets Jenks come downtown but not often. So it’s a sure bet Jenks will be here tonight. He don’t stay away from the house long though. Three quarters of an hour, I reckon.”
So ended the conversation that had interested Harry Vincent. After that he had hurried up to Holmwood Arms, and had obtained his car at the garage. He had driven into the city, to report all he had heard to Fellows.
The insurance broker had sent out a note by the stenographer. That was at two o’clock. When Harry returned at three thirty, he found an envelope and a small box awaiting him. The box was secured with seals.
“Keep the box in your pocket,” Fellows had said. “Go back to Holmwood. Check up on the information you have gained, if possible. Read the letter in your room, at precisely half past seven.”