“As I was saying,” began Harlow, “there must be cases in which you would consider—”
“Look at this card,” interposed Satruff, as he extended his hand toward the physician. “I suppose you will recognize the name of this unexpected visitor.”
Harlow took the card. An expression of surprise appeared upon his sallow features.
“Lamont Cranston!” he exclaimed. “He’s the millionaire who travels everywhere. A remarkable chap, they say. A friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance,” returned Satruff. “In fact, I have visited his New Jersey home on two occasions. He has never been here before. I suppose that—”
Satruff broke off as footsteps sounded from the stairway. Okum appeared with a tall man by his side.
Lamont Cranston, the millionaire, strolled into Satruff’s living room. His host advanced to meet him.
“Welcome, Cranston!” exclaimed Satruff. “This is indeed an unexpected surprise.”
A SLIGHT smile appeared upon thin lips. Lamont Cranston’s face was an impressive one. His features were almost masklike. His aquiline nose gave him a hawkish expression; his keen eyes were steady orbs that seemed to glow as they met the light.
“It is a surprise to myself,” announced Cranston in a quiet tone. “I chanced to be near Garport. I recalled that you lived in the vicinity. I dropped by in hope that you would be at home.”
Folsom Satruff nodded as he introduced the visitor to Doctor Wesley Harlow. The young physician eyed Lamont Cranston closely. As a nerve specialist, he could see that this calm-faced individual was a being who possessed an iron will.
“You can stay a while—”
Cranston nodded as he heard Satruff speak.
“An hour or more,” he remarked. As though answering Cranston’s statement, a clock on the living-room mantel chimed the half hour. Satruff and his guests looked in that direction. They observed that the time was half past eleven.
Doctor Harlow arose with a slight touch of nervousness. He glanced at his watch to make sure the clock was right. He turned to Cranston and Satruff.
“I must be back in town by midnight,” he remarked. “Sorry to be leaving you. I’d like to talk with you again, Satruff. Suppose — to-morrow night we—”
“Give me a call,” suggested Satruff. The millionaire walked to the door with the physician. The two stopped at the top of the stairs. Lamont Cranston stood alone. His keen, burning eyes turned from the distant pair to the clock upon the mantel.
The faint echo of a whispered laugh came from Cranston’s thin lips. Neither Satruff nor Harlow heard that trace of mirth. It was an eerie tone of softened mockery that came as a reminder of a strident laugh which earlier to-night had been the knell to men of crime.
This personage who bore the guise of Lamont Cranston was none other than The Shadow. The master fighter of the night had arrived at the home of Folsom Satruff — the place where further crime was due to strike!
CHAPTER VII. THE RAIDERS
WELL had The Shadow gauged his arrival at the home of Folsom Satruff. Cliff Marsland, before lapsing into unconsciousness, had informed his black-garbed master that Pug Hoffler was setting forth at eleven o’clock.
It was obvious that the ex-convict’s meeting place must be somewhere in Manhattan. At least half an hour would be required for the gang leader and his henchmen to reach Garport. The Shadow, posing as Lamont Cranston, had reached the important spot ahead of the raiding crew.
Folsom Satruff, when he came back into the living room, found Lamont Cranston seated before the fire.
As Satruff handed the box of cigars to his guest, Cranston took one with a leisurely air. There was nothing in Cranston’s manner to indicate the purpose that had brought him here.
“Sorry Harlow had to leave,” observed Satruff. “He’s an interesting chap.”
“I’ve heard of him,” returned Cranston. “A nerve specialist, I believe.”
“An excellent one,” affirmed Satruff. “A profession of that sort must take its toll, however. Harlow has seemed to be in a distraught condition the last few times that I have seen him.”
“Does he visit you often?”
“Quite frequently. I have noticed that he seems worried. I have constantly tried to ease his mind away from his work and his troubles.”
Okum, Satruff’s cadaverous servant, had entered the room. The man had evidently come for some minor purpose. He left without speaking. Satruff noted that Cranston’s gaze followed.
“An odd old fellow,” observed Satruff, in an undertone. “A faithful servant, though. Bartlett Okum is his name. He has been in my employ for several years.”
“What are his duties?”
“They are varied. He serves as my secretary, for one thing. Okum is methodical; I can intrust details to him. He is very taciturn and seems satisfied with his work.”
There was a pause. Cranston, puffing at his cigar, turned the topic to Satruff’s residence.
“A remarkable place you have here,” he said. “The interior surprises me as much as the exterior. Coming up your driveway, I was not quite sure which was the front of the house until I saw the porte-cochere.”
“That is not the front,” smiled Satruff.
“No?” queried Cranston.
STILL smiling, Satruff faced the doorway that led to the stairs. He pointed with his hand to indicate that direction. With sweeping gestures he described the layout of the building.
“The front,” explained Satruff, “is toward the Sound. The driveway entrance — which you mistook for the front — is on the left. There is another side entrance on the right of the house.”
“With a driveway?”
“Yes, but one which is seldom used. In fact, that side of the house is one which is rarely used as an entrance. It has a doorway which is kept locked. Within is a short entry; then comes the strong-room where my vault is located.”
“Rather an open position for the strong-room.”
“Hardly. There are two heavy doors; the outer one and the door of the strong-room itself. They can only be opened from within the strong-room, which is reached by a side passage from within the house.”
“It would seem hardly necessary to use the door on the right side at all.”
“I seldom do. There are times, however, when I receive packages of value. I usually have them delivered outside the strong-room. That is one of Okum’s duties — to receive such shipments. My house servant, Riggs, is more of a butler.”
Cranston’s eyes were still turned toward the door. Okum had gone downstairs. He was returning. At the head, however, the servant paused. Satruff, like Cranston, chanced to see him turn, hesitate and then descend.
“Did I hear a doorbell ring?” questioned Cranston quietly.
“Riggs will answer it if you did,” replied Satruff, in an indifferent tone.
“Maybe it was a mere fancy,” observed Cranston. “You were talking about Okum — how he answered calls at the door of your strong-room. I saw him stop at the head of the stairs.”
Satruff’s eyebrows nodded. There was something in Cranston’s matter-of-fact suggestion that made the millionaire think. As he stared at his guest, Satruff seemed to weigh Cranston’s words.
“That is odd,” remarked Satruff. “You are very observant, Cranston. Okum’s action would certainly indicate that he had heard a bell.”
“Particularly as he was bound for this room.”
“Yes. But I cannot imagine who would be coming here to-night. The only door that Okum would answer is the one beyond the strong-room. Riggs takes care of the usual entrance — the one by the porte-cochere.”
“Do you receive many visitors late at night?”