A close observer might have detected that he was a man from Manhattan.
“We’ll have dinner in a few minutes,” said Jerry. “Here’s a letter I picked up to-day.”
The old man looked at the envelope. It was addressed to J. Stevens, care of general delivery in a town some miles away.
“From Bronson,” he said. “All right, Jerry, you may leave.”
He opened the letter. As he read it, his face paled momentarily; then it reddened, became grim, and settled. Finally the old man laughed, sneeringly.
Birdie Crull wondered at his varied emotions. Usually the old man was impassive.
“We are all playing with dynamite,” said the old man. “This proves it. It concerns you, as well as myself, Crull.
“There is only one being who has ever annihilated my plans. Only one who has ever defeated Isaac Coffran. He is—”
The old man hesitated before pronouncing the name. Birdie Crull listened tensely.
“The Shadow!”
At these words from the lips of Isaac Coffran, Birdie Crull half rose from his chair. The murderer, with all his nerve, felt the pangs of terror when he heard that name. The old man had pronounced it with hideous venom.
“The Shadow!” echoed Birdie Crull.
“Yes,” said Isaac Coffran. “I think you have brought us trouble, again, Crull. I thank you for it. If there is one man whom I would like to meet, that man is The Shadow.”
The old man hesitated as he looked at Birdie Crull. Then he decided to explain.
“For years,” he said, “I lived in a house in New York. I had my schemes, my plans, and my methods. They worked. The arrangement we have here was a later development. I kept clear of it.
“Then I had a great plan. Two competent men were handling it. They would have succeeded — but for The Shadow.
“A young fellow named Duncan was a slight obstacle in our path. I arranged to dispose of him — easily. The Shadow interfered.
“Up until then, I had laughed at all talk of The Shadow. But when I encountered him, disaster followed. I left New York because of him. Clever though he may be, he could not have trailed me.”
“How does he come into it now?” questioned Birdie Crull, anxiously.
“Through you. He has found your trail.”
Birdie Crull repressed a shudder.
“How do you know?”
“Bronson tells me so. You know Spotter?”
“Yes. Every one does.”
“The Shadow has been pumping Spotter. I have the details here. He wants to find a man who has nerve; can use a gun; or a knife.”
Birdie Crull stared blankly at the wall.
“Do you think he is wise?” he questioned. “Does he know about — Jarnow — and Griffith?”
The murderer’s voice quavered slightly. Isaac Coffran studied him with piercing eyes.
“Perhaps he does,” said the old man harshly. “If so — let him be wise. He is not infallible.
“He was in disguise, when he met Spotter. He is perfect at the art of disguise. But Spotter saw through it — and The Shadow doesn’t know it!
“He fooled me once, The Shadow did. Impersonated Pedro, my Mexican helper, and actually deceived me. Later, he escaped an excellent trap that I planned for him. On this occasion, he is ours.
“Spotter knows The Shadow’s ability. He has suggested a plan that Bronson can carry through. The Shadow can perform wonders; but not miracles. He will need a miracle to save him this time.”
“I’ve seen him,” admitted Birdie Crull. “Came out of the dark. Plopped me in the middle of the street and—”
Isaac Coffran interrupted with a wave of his hand.
“He wins when he catches men unaware,” said the old man. “This time he will lose. He doesn’t know where you are, Crull. He doesn’t know where I am. He is not an agent of the police.”
“What is he then?”
“A mystery. A man who loves crime, but who thwarts it in preference to furthering it. I imagine that he has great wealth. He was a spy during the War, I understand.”
“Does he play a lone game?”
“Yes, and no. He has aides, but they play very minor parts. That will be to our advantage. Everything is arranged. Spotter and Bronson have awaited my word, only in case I might have a better suggestion.
“I approve of their plan. It will work. Remain tranquil.”
Jerry knocked at the door.
“Dinner,” said Isaac Coffran. “Time you were back at Windsor’s. Forget The Shadow. He is my prize. Be watchful from now on. You have done well.”
Birdie Crull had reached the stairway when the old man recalled him.
“Be sure to send Vernon over immediately,” said Isaac Coffran. “Tell him to bring his appliances. I have work for him. He will understand.”
“All right. By the way — I found these on Jarnow.”
Birdie Crull gave three crisp twenty-dollar bills to Isaac Coffran. The old man studied them keenly.
“He must have picked these up when he was here,” he said.
“Exactly,” answered Crull. “Just another clue that Detective Griffith didn’t keep. I know what I’m doing when I work.”
As the echoes of Birdie Crull’s footsteps came from the stairs, old Isaac Coffran rubbed his hands. His stooped shoulder trembled, a soft spasm of fiendish laughter shook his body.
“The Shadow!” His lips spat the words with diabolic malediction. “The Shadow! Hah-hah-hah!”
The laugh carried a sinister irony. A pitiless hilarity seemed to trail the old man’s bent figure as it slowly descended the stairway.
CHAPTER XI
VINCENT ESTABLISHES HIMSELF
The time was well past noon when Harry Vincent drove into the driveway that led to Blair Windsor’s pretentious home. His ring at the front door was answered promptly by a middle-aged manservant. At his request to meet Garret Buckman, he was ushered into a large parlor.
The man whom Vincent sought arrived a few minutes later. Garret Buckman was a genial individual — fifty years old, or thereabouts. His plump face beamed, and his hairless pate glistened. He approached Vincent with the outstretched hand of good-fellowship.
“Hello, Vincent! I’ve been expecting you. Had a wire from old Claude Fellows, yesterday. Great chap, Fellows. Old friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“That’s correct.”
“Any friend of his is a friend of mine. Glad you stopped in to see me. I want you to meet the other folks here. Maybe I can arrange for you to stay a while. You aren’t in any hurry to get along, are you?”
“Well — no,” said Harry, doubtfully. “I was driving up to Vermont. Happened to see Fellows before I left New York He told me to be sure to stop here, and to send his regrets.”
“Maybe you’d better forget Vermont,” urged Buckman. “Wait till I talk it over with Windsor. Come on. I want you to meet him.”
He took Harry’s arm, and led him through a hall. The click of pool balls came from the other end of the passage.
They entered a room where four men were gathered about a billiard table. The game paused as they entered. A young man, with friendly countenance, came to greet them.
“This is Mr. Windsor,” introduced Buckman. “Meet Mr. Vincent, Blair.”
Harry felt an immediate liking for Blair Windsor. The man’s personality was genial. He was a virile type, with an expression that betokened comradeship. He had the physique of an athlete.
The others were introduced.
Philip Harper was a short, stocky person, who thrust out his hand in a nervous manner. Vincent reckoned his age as past forty. Perry Quinn was younger — well under thirty. He was friendly in his greeting, but he displayed a certain reserve that impressed Vincent. This man might bear watching.
Harry Vincent withheld himself when he was introduced to the last of the four. The man’s name was Bert Crull. Harry felt quite sure that he was the young man whom he had seen in the farmhouse the night before.