LEWSHAM was looking toward Delka, who was studying Craybaw. The man by the fireplace produced a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“I have acquired a slight chill,” asserted Craybaw. “Due, perhaps, to all this worry. You will pardon my actions, gentlemen. Frankly, I am overwrought by worry.”
“Perhaps it would be wise for us to leave for London,” suggested Sir Ernest. “You must rest, Craybaw. Tomorrow is an important day.”
“I shall be quite fit by morning. No, no, gentlemen; I would prefer that you stay here. For the night, if possible. The fog must be thick there; driving would prove abominable. Am I right, Delka?”
“It’s turned into a pea-souper,” acknowledged Delka. “A bad one. I only hope that it will let up before morning.”
“Turning out as you predicted, Craybaw,” laughed Sir Ernest. “Remember? At the bridge?”
“What’s that?” Craybaw snapped the question. “At the bridge?”
“When you spoke about the fog—”
“Yes. Of course. I did not quite catch your question, Sir Ernest. Gentlemen, I insist that you remain all night. We can drive up to London in the morning, in Chief Lewsham’s car.”
“In my car?” queried Lewsham, surprised.
“Do you mean my phaeton?” queried Sir Ernest.
“Of course,” replied Craybaw, in an annoyed tone. “What has come over me? Really, I am not myself since this chill struck me.”
He turned to Hervey, who was standing in the doorway. The house man looked perplexedly toward his master.
“Scotch and soda,” ordered Craybaw. “It should prove a remedy for the chill. Fetch it, Hervey, with tumblers for all of us. Cigars, gentlemen? Hervey, where is the box of cigars?”
“You never keep boxes of cigars, Mr. Craybaw. I can bring some coronas from the humidor—”
“That is what I meant. The coronas. I thought I had left some loose ones about. Very well, Hervey. Bring us a supply.”
Seating himself, Craybaw regained composure by half closing his eyes. Sir Ernest decided to remain at the house; Lewsham and Delka also agreed, after the latter had added a few details about the heaviness of the evening fog.
Hervey arrived with drinks. Craybaw came to life and ordered him to put away the coupe and the phaeton. Hervey requested the keys to the garage; Craybaw fumbled in his pocket, produced a bunch and told the house man to pick out the right ones.
Lewsham mentioned that he and Sir Ernest had talked to Delka about tomorrow’s plans. In so doing, the chief constable reviewed some of the conversation that had been held earlier in the evening. Craybaw, sipping at his drink, warmed up to the discussion. His manner became more natural. He decided that his chill was passing.
A clock was chiming half past ten. Lewsham, noting the time, began to reconsider his decision. He asked when the last train left; Craybaw shifted the question to Hervey. The house man stated that the last up train departed from High Brooms at two minutes after eleven.
“We could still make it,” mused Lewsham. “Fog seldom delays the railways.”
“Stay here,” insisted Craybaw. “Sir Ernest will see to it that you reach your office at the accustomed hour.”
“Very well,” agreed Lewsham, in a tone of final decision.
SILENTLY, The Shadow moved from the sun porch. Gaining the lawn, he took a short-cut past the house, across to a gate. From there, he strode briskly in the direction of High Brooms station, sensing his direction, choosing paths that he knew must be short cuts.
By the time he neared the station, he was divesting himself of cloak and slouch hat. Reaching the shrubbery, he regained his briefcase. He drew out his overcoat and his fedora hat; then stuffed the other garments into the bag. A few moments later, he was hurrying to the station platform, just as the up train for London made its arrival.
It was Lamont Cranston who soon was seated alone in the seclusion of a smoking compartment, riding into London. The whispered laugh that came from the lips of the American millionaire was, however, a reminder of his true identity. The Shadow had reason to be mirthful.
The Shadow had divined The Harvester’s game. He knew where the master crook could be found. He understood the new part that the superman of crime had chosen to play. There were details, however, to be settled. The Shadow preferred to wait.
For The Harvester was shrewd. Too clever to wither if confronted with accusations. Moreover, he was the central figure of a dangerous crew. Small-fry though his henchmen were, they had proven themselves murderers in the past. They should not be allowed to remain at large.
Even before his first skirmish with The Harvester, The Shadow had decided that the master crook should be delivered to the law, under circumstances which would leave no doubt as to his ways of crime. The Harvester had nearly been trapped in the perpetration of a criminal act at the Moravia. The Shadow intended to give him new opportunity to thrust his head into a tightening noose.
The oddity of Justin Craybaw’s strange behavior was no riddle to The Shadow. The change in Craybaw had taken place during that trip from Tunbridge Wells to Hayward Heath, a journey which had never been completed. Something had happened upon the road before The Shadow could arrive to prevent it.
There was a chance that new murder had entered the game. If so, it could not be rectified. But if The Harvester had chosen to spare life, the rescue of any innocent person could wait until the morrow.
For The Shadow, to be sure of positive success, had one more task to perform tonight; and duty lay in London. That accomplished, the last vestige of The Harvester’s deception would be ended.
The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER XI. AFTER MIDNIGHT
IT was a few minutes past midnight when The Shadow reached Charing Cross Station, the London terminus of the Southern Railway, which line he had taken in from High Brooms. He went directly west from Charing Cross, riding in the Piccadilly Line of the underground. His only pause between the railway station and the tube was when he stopped to make a brief telephone call.
After a short trip via underground, The Shadow emerged from a station near the southern fringe of the Mayfair district. He stepped immediately into a fog so thick that the shop fronts were scarcely visible from the curb of the sidewalk. Delka had been right when he had stated that a real “pea-souper” had set in over London.
Late traffic was almost at a standstill. Wayfarers were few. Fog had stilled London, like a living hush settling over a doomed city. Sometimes fogs like these persisted for days; and always, with each new advent, London became stalled. The first nights were the worst, for it was then that citizens lacked the “fog-sense” that they always regained when a pea-souper continued its clutch.
Depending upon his keen sense of direction, The Shadow headed in the direction of Grosvenor Square.
Choosing a parklike stretch, he crossed a strip of dampened grass, to pause when he reached the side of a bulky building that loomed suddenly from the darkened mist. He had arrived at the apartment hotel where the Rajah of Delapore dwelt.
The side of the squatty building lacked the smooth marble that characterized its front. Moving along a roughened wall, The Shadow paused at a definite spot. Despite the darkness and the mist, he had gauged the exact place he wanted. He was directly below a window of the rajah’s living room.
Standing in a narrow space, The Shadow was between the wall and a terraced embankment. Had he taken to the soft earth of the bank, he could have gained a height that would give a slanted view toward the windows of the rajah’s apartment. That, however, was insufficient. Looking upward, The Shadow could see blackness only. There was no chance to peer into the rajah’s curtained abode.