“But The Harvester would!” ejaculated Lewsham. “In order to avoid writing a signature that was not his own; one that would have been suspected. Craybaw’s! He passed that issue last night, as well, when he refused to sign letters that Hervey brought to him!”
SPECULATION ended as Lewsham suddenly remembered the great task at stake. Nearly half a million pounds had been gained by a master crook. That, to Harry Vincent, meant the staggering sum of close to five million dollars.
Lewsham went for the telephone in Craybaw’s office. He put in a telephone call to the managing director’s home in Tunbridge Wells. The reply came that the line was out of order. Lewsham hurried through the conference room. He called to men outside. Half a dozen C.I.D. operatives came at his command.
“Fifteen minutes ago,” announced Lewsham, studying his watch, “Inspector Delka and Sir Ernest Jennup left here with a man whom they thought was Justin Craybaw. It was not Justin Craybaw. That man was an impostor. He was The Harvester.”
The Scotland Yard men stared in amazement.
“The Harvester carried a pigskin traveling bag,” added Lewsham, grimly. “It probably contains nearly half a million pounds. Sir Ernest and Inspector Delka do not know of the bag’s contents. They are taking The Harvester to Tunbridge Wells. They will be there within the next thirty minutes.
“Their destination is the home of Justin Craybaw, where The Harvester will still continue to pose as the owner. Our one hope is to arrive there before he learns that we have uncovered his game. We can not rely upon the local authorities at Tunbridge Wells. The Harvester would outmatch them.
“I shall ride in the first of three swift motors, leading the way to Craybaw’s. We shall deploy about the grounds and close in to trap The Harvester. You, Tunning, and you, Dawsett, arrange for the cars at once.”
Two men hastened to call Scotland Yard. Lewsham paced the conference room, then delivered a new order:
“Parkins, you will call Tunbridge Wells from here, immediately after my departure. Do not call Craybaw’s home; that would be useless, for the telephone is out of commission. Communicate with the local authorities. Tell them to meet us on the road this side of High Brooms. Do not name our destination; otherwise they might blunder. Say that I am coming. That should prove sufficient.
“Keep Blessingwood and Vincent here with you. We shall need their testimony later. Also that of the Rajah of Delapore. Have him remain after he arrives. Wilton will stay with you. Summon more men from headquarters should you need them. Another call, also. To Croydon Air Field. Have planes set out for Tunbridge Wells in exactly” — Lewsham paused to glance at his watch — “in exactly forty minutes after my departure. They must not arrive overhead until we have formed a cordon.
“Blessingwood will give the location of Craybaw’s home, to identify it for the air men. Procure a map at once, Blessingwood. We must ensnare The Harvester should he attempt to escape by air.”
Lewsham paused, breathless. He glanced from the window. It was slightly foggy still, here in London; but the visibility would be good, south of the city. It lacked a full hour until dusk, even though the afternoon had waned.
“Duties for you two,” announced Lewsham, turning to the last pair of subordinates. “Burleigh, you are to apprehend a man named Lionel Selbrock. You will find complete data concerning him in my office at headquarters. He is presumably in Carlisle, a fact of which we have no proof other than a telegram.
“Nevertheless, watch the proper railway stations. Also his hotel. Have all the motorized units of the Flying Squad ready to arrest the man on sight. Cover his hotel, the Addingham. Spare nothing in this duty, Burleigh. Here, I shall give you a written order.”
Lewsham pulled a pad from his pocket. While he was scrawling the order, he gave similar instructions to the last of his six men.
“Layton, you have a man to trap. His name is Jed Ranworthy, secretary of his excellency, the Rajah of Delapore. Question the rajah about Ranworthy, who is supposed to be in Yarmouth. Whatever the rajah’s opinion of the man’s honesty, do not shirk your duty. Data on Ranworthy will be found at my office. Use it.”
Lewsham scrawled a second order. Hardly had he finished before news came that the motor cars were in Threadneedle Street. With Tunning and Dawsett, each delegated as a car commander, Lewsham made haste to reach the street.
HARDLY had the chief gone before the Rajah of Delapore arrived. Scotland Yard men informed him of the circumstances. Questions were asked concerning Ranworthy. The conference room was in a buzz.
Harry Vincent walked into Craybaw’s office to cheer up Blessingwood, who was slumped behind the managing director’s desk.
“It will be a terrible blow to Sir Ernest Jennup,” groaned Blessingwood. “To him and the other financiers who control Rudlow, Limited. Poor Craybaw; his plight must be terrible, for he is either dead or a prisoner somewhere. But neither Justin Craybaw nor myself are owners in Rudlow, Limited. We shall suffer when the concern goes into bankruptcy, but we may find placement elsewhere.
“Who can The Harvester be? This man Selbrock? Or Ranworthy? Could he be” — Blessingwood lowered his voice to a whisper — “could he be the rajah? Or that jeweler, Canonby? Deuce take me!” The comptroller banged the desk with his fist. “I am mistrusting every one!”
Harry Vincent restrained a grim smile. He was pleased, at least, that he had declared himself. Otherwise he, too, would have been under immediate suspicion. Harry saw Blessingwood glance at his watch and shake his head, troubled. Harry knew the man’s thoughts.
Blessingwood was considering the start that The Harvester had gained. Fully thirty minutes, by the time that Sidney Lewsham had managed to give orders and begin pursuit. Time to be more than halfway to Craybaw’s home near Tunbridge Wells.
But Harry Vincent did not share Blessingwood’s apprehensions. Harry was thinking of another factor in the case: The Shadow. The light had dawned. Harry knew where The Shadow must surely be. At Craybaw’s. For Harry’s remembrance of The Shadow’s final words last night came as proof that the master sleuth had dug deeply into The Harvester’s game.
The trail, Harry was sure, was leading to some spot where The Shadow waited. Sir Ernest Jennup could remain a dupe; Eric Delka could continue to be deceived by The Harvester’s game. The Shadow knew the truth. He would meet the rogue who posed as Justin Craybaw. The Harvester was playing into The Shadow’s hands.
Yet in his confidence, Harry still had one bewildered phase? Who was The Harvester? That, Harry decided, was a question that could be answered by only one person other than The Harvester himself.
The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVI. THE HARVESTER REAPS
THE time element had been figured closely by Sidney Lewsham. The chief constable had known, when he left Rudlow’s, that The Harvester would reach Tunbridge Wells within twenty minutes after men from Scotland Yard had started their pursuit from London.
Almost at the exact minute of Lewsham’s calculation, Sir Ernest Jennup’s long phaeton nosed into the driveway of Justin Craybaw’s country home. Sir Ernest’s toot of the horn brought Hervey to the front steps.
It attracted other attention also — that of distant gardeners about the hedgerows. Furthermore, it drew the keen gaze of a solitary watcher who still rested in the little grove beside the conservatory. As if in answer to an expected signal, The Shadow arose and dropped aside his knapsack. It fell, opened, to the grass.
The car was obscured by the corner of the house. The workmen could not see the inner fringe of the trees. Quickly, The Shadow gained the conservatory and entered the house through the living room. He had found a hiding-place before the arrivals entered from the front.