The Eyes of the Shadow s-2

by Maxwell Grant

  "Come on," urged Bruce as the door yielded.

  They found themselves in a large room - the only room in the entire cabin. There was nothing there except a box on which stood a lighted lantern.

  The effect of this discovery was stunning. The truth dawned upon Vincent and Duncan simultaneously.

  The cabin was deserted. The lantern had been left there, with the shades partly raised, to mislead those who might see it from a distance.

  The wily Bernardo Chefano had departed with his ape-faced man. He had planned well, planned to trick every one who might have suspected the crimes he had committed.

  The cabin was not the meeting place.

  The fourth man had gone to his doom!

  CHAPTER XXVI. FELLOWS IS SUMMONED

  AT four o'clock Thursday afternoon, Claude Fellows began to pace up and down his private office. The insurance broker seldom became perturbed, but on this occasion his chubby face expressed considerable worriment.

  He had received no message from The Shadow since Tuesday morning.

  This was something that had never happened before during a period of activity. Furthermore, there had been no answer to urgent messages which Fellows had sent to the office on Twenty-third Street.

  The word which had come to Fellows on Tuesday morning had been contained in a letter which bore the postmark of Monday night. It had simply stated that Harry Vincent had made a direct report by wireless, that he had discovered the place which he had been seeking, and that Fellows would receive further word by Wednesday.

  But on Wednesday, instead of receiving terse instructions from The Shadow, Fellows had been called by Harry Vincent - called by long distance from a town in Pennsylvania. Vincent's report had been disconcerting. He had not located the meeting place, after all. Things had gone wrong Tuesday night. He had lost the communication which he had established.

  Vincent had spoken rather vaguely over the telephone, and Fellows had promised to reply by letter. For the present he could only advise Vincent to wait and to exert the utmost caution in all his actions. His final instructions were to report to him if there were any new developments.

  Fellows had delivered a letter himself, making the trip to the vacant office in the building on Twenty-third Street. No reply had arrived on Wednesday. He had repeated the operation the next day, to no avail.

  Now it was Friday afternoon. He had sent a third letter in the morning. Still no reply. Fellows had good cause to be worried. What had become of The Shadow?

  A clipping lay upon the insurance broker's desk. He had clipped it from a paper that morning. It stated that Harrison Glover, a real-estate man of Scranton, Pennsylvania, had mysteriously disappeared.

  The missing man had left home Monday afternoon, stating that he would be home Wednesday night. He had not come back. There were important reasons why he should have been back in Scranton at the time he had stated. His case had been reported to the police, but they had no clue regarding him.

  "The fourth man," murmured Fellows. "Missing. Vincent was mistaken when he reported he had discovered the meeting place. The Shadow has failed to appear."

  It was the first time in Fellows's experience that such well-laid plans had gone wrong. Where was The Shadow? In New York? On another enterprise, relying solely upon Vincent?

  Fellows shook his head. It seemed more likely that The Shadow had met with foul play, The chubby man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  The telephone bell rang. Fellows lifted the receiver of the instrument.

  "Mr. Fellows?" came a voice.

  "This is Mr. Fellows."

  "I am Doctor Wells, of Merwyn, New Jersey. Are you a friend of Lamont Cranston, who lives near here?"

  "I am."

  "Mr. Cranston is in a very serious condition. He has mentioned your name twice. I would appreciate it if you would come to his home as soon as possible."

  "I shall come immediately. What is the trouble?"

  "An accident. I shall explain later. There is a train from the Pennsylvania Station at four thirty-five. Mr.

  Cranston's car will meet you at Rahway."

  Fellows's mind was working actively as he hurried to the depot. An accident to Lamont Cranston, coincident with the disappearance of The Shadow! He had not thought of it before. The incidents of his previous visit to the millionaire's home now loomed large in his memory.

  THE physician met Fellows in the hallway of Lamont Cranston's home. He took the insurance broker to one side, and ushered him into a small room where they were joined by Richards, the millionaire's valet.

  "Mr. Cranston is sleeping now," explained Doctor Huston Wells. "We must not disturb him for a while.

  But matters have been serious. Only servants in the house - although Richards here is very capable. But the circumstances are most unusual, and when I heard that Mr. Cranston had spoken your name, I questioned Richards. I learned that you have long been a friend of Mr. Cranston, so I summoned you."

  "I am glad you did," replied Fellows. "Tell me what has happened."

  "You must keep the matter strictly confidential," said the doctor.

  "Mr. Fellows will do that, sir," put in Richards. "He has had business dealings with Mr. Cranston for several years. They are very good friends. When Mr. Cranston spoke this morning, I was sure that he wanted Mr. Fellows here."

  "I shall preserve absolute secrecy," promised Fellows.

  "Good," said the doctor. "Tell what you know, Richards."

  "It was on Monday night," said the man. "Mr. Cranston went upstairs to his room in the tower. He has a wireless set there, you know. It is a hobby with him. He was sending and receiving messages until about nine o'clock. Then he hurriedly left the house. He had ordered Stanley, the chauffeur, to be waiting with the car. I was at the door, and I heard him tell Stanley to lose no time getting in to New York."

  "I have questioned Stanley," interposed Doctor Wells. "His story coincides with what Richards is telling you."

  "Mr. Cranston told Stanley to come in town on Tuesday night and wait for him at the usual parking space on Forty-eighth Street," continued Richards. "Stanley did so; he waited until long after midnight, wondering why Mr. Cranston did not arrive. At two o'clock, a cab drove up. Mr. Cranston alighted and entered the limousine. Stanley was holding the door open; he says that Mr. Cranston stumbled as he entered the big car.

  "Mr. Cranston told Stanley to hurry home, which he did. I was awake; the other servants had gone to bed. I heard the car coming up the drive and I opened the front door. I saw Stanley get out and open the door of the car. But Mr. Cranston did not appear. I walked down the front steps and joined Stanley.

  "We both looked in the back of the car. For a moment, I thought that there was no one there. It was all dark, and no one moved. Then I turned on the light. Mr. Cranston was lying in a corner. His coat and vest were open; there was blood all over the side of his shirt.

  "I thought for a minute that he was dead. He was limp when Stanley and I brought him in the house. I called for Doctor Wells, who came here immediately. Mr. Cranston seemed very badly hurt, sir."

  "He had four knife wounds, and a bullet in his left side," announced the physician. "One cut, on his left shoulder, was a nasty one. The bullet caused a lot of trouble. The case was a bad one because he had evidently received the wounds several hours before I arrived. He had suffered greatly from loss of blood.

  "When he regained consciousness, Cranston became delirious. He said nothing coherent. I was afraid that he would not survive, but his vitality is wonderful. His condition was critical Tuesday and Wednesday. It improved a bit Thursday, but it was not until this morning that he spoke so we could understand him. Then he mentioned your name twice."

  "And spoke as though he wanted to see you, sir," added Richards.

  "What is his condition now?" inquired Fellows, with anxiety in his voice.

  "It is improving rapidly," said Doctor Wells.

  "How soon will he be better?"

  "I canno
t tell. It may be a matter of weeks."

  Fellows suppressed a groan.

  "It depends a great deal upon how he is when he awakens," explained the physician. "The wounds are doing nicely. The fever has been the greatest complication. I hope that it will lessen, now that he is sleeping quietly. If it passes away rapidly, he will be sitting up within two days. Possibly to-morrow. If it continues, we may have a long siege."

  "I shall wait until he wakes," declared Fellows.

  "Very good," responded the doctor. "But I have wanted to talk with some friend of Mr. Cranston's regarding this affair. What should be done about it? I have hesitated to report it to the police."

  "Don't do that," said Fellows promptly. "He was wounded in New York. This is New Jersey. It would be best to keep the matter quiet."

  "Yet steps should be taken to discover the men who are responsible for Mr. Cranston's injuries." The doctor was solicitous, but Fellows was thinking rapidly.

  "Let him decide that matter," he said. "He knows what happened and where it occurred. Has he said anything that might be a clue?"

  "Not a word," the doctor replied. "Am I correct, Richards?"

  "You are correct, doctor," replied the valet.

  "Since it happened Monday night," said Fellows, "it would be wise to let the matter rest for the present. I say that emphatically. You have called upon me as a friend of Mr. Cranston. I know him well enough to believe that he would agree with me."

  "Very well," said the doctor.

  FELLOWS dined with Doctor Wells, and later in the evening, Richards informed them that Mr. Cranston had awakened. They went upstairs, and the wounded millionaire greeted them with a feeble smile on his pale face.

  "Fellows," he said weakly.

  The insurance broker sat down.

  "Don't let him talk much," whispered the physician. "Don't say anything that will worry him."

  "How are things going?" asked the man in the bed.

  "Very well," replied Fellows.

  The head turned, and two eyes peered searchingly at Fellows. Under that glance the insurance broker felt uneasy. Cranston was pale and weak, but his eyes seemed twin fires that pierced through the wanness.

  "Fellows," said the millionaire, in a slow voice, "in my vest pocket you will find a slip of paper. It bears a telephone number. Call it. Tell the man who answers you that I am - that I am not well. Ask him to come here. He is a wireless operator. I want him to take charge of my set - upstairs."

  Lamont Cranston closed his eyes wearily.

  "The man I want," he said, "is an old friend of mine - a friend whom you have never met. I shall ask him to write you - regarding insurance policies - and other matters. Be sure that he comes here. Be sure to reply immediately to any letters that he sends you."

  The millionaire ceased speaking. He seemed to be half asleep.

  "Come," whispered Doctor Wells.

  The insurance broker found the paper in the vest pocket. He opened it at the telephone table downstairs.

  He called the number. A quiet voice replied. Fellows explained the situation.

  "I shall come to-night," said the man at the other end of the wire. "You may count on my arriving within two hours."

  Fellows was thoughtful as he rode back to Rahway in Lamont Cranston's car. He was wondering about the phone call he had made. The voice that had answered was one that he had never heard previously.

  He felt that he would like to meet the man to whom he had spoken.

  The phone call had relieved Fellows's worries; not because of the voice, but because of the call itself.

  Fellows had a remarkable memory when telephone numbers were concerned.

  The number which he had called was the same number that he had given to Harry Vincent, the night that young man had kept watch at the home of Isaac Coffran.

  CHAPTER XXVII. NEW DISCOVERIES

  HARRY VINCENT stared gloomily at Bruce Duncan while they were eating their breakfast.

  "Next Tuesday is coming soon," remarked Harry.

  "Why remind me of it?" replied his friend. "If we don't do any more than we have during the last three days, next Tuesday can come and go without meaning anything to us."

  "What can we do? We've lost contact by radio, and we've been instructed to use caution. We can't go prowling through the woods without exciting suspicion, can we?"

  "Did you send a wireless message last night?"

  "Yes, and I listened for a reply. Up to ten o'clock. No result. So I gave it up."

  "You received a letter when we were in town yesterday morning. Whom was it from?"

  "Fellows. He simply said to keep on lying low. I think something has gone wrong, Bruce. It's Saturday now, and we've been kept virtually idle since Tuesday night. It seems to me The Shadow has slipped out of the picture."

  "Maybe he ran into trouble, Harry. He's looked for it often enough. He ran some big chances that night he pulled me out of Isaac Coffran's house."

  "The Shadow usually manages to win out, Bruce. But this time it looks different. I'm going to run down to the village to see if there's another letter there. Unless Fellows gives us some definite instructions, we'll have to act for ourselves."

  Bruce Duncan was thoughtful.

  "Harry," he said, "we can't be far wrong in our location. The bus driver told us that he stopped at Ridge Road to let a man off on Tuesday night. The only reason that we haven't found the place is because we haven't looked."

  "I agree, Bruce. But if we run into Chefano again, he'll be wise to the whole thing. You know that."

  "If we had a plane, we could fly over this locality and make observations. You can see a lot from above."

  Vincent grunted contemptuously.

  "Sure you can, and what would Chefano think if he heard a plane buzzing in circles overhead? But wait!

  You've given me an idea. You know that mountain in back of us?"

  "The one they call Rocky Summit?"

  "That's the one. When I was in town yesterday, I saw one of the natives pointing it out to a stranger. He said that there's a path up the mountain. There's a clearing near the top, and you can see the whole valley from there. That's better than an airplane."

  "We'd be pretty far away to observe anything."

  "Not if we had powerful field glasses. We'll go downtown and see if we can buy any."

  THEY were fortunate when they arrived at the village. Josh Stevens had an excellent pair of field glasses for sale.

  "I had an order for them two years ago," he said. "When they came in, the customer had left town. I kept them anyway."

  The morning mail had brought no letter from Fellows. So Vincent and Duncan set out for Rocky Summit.

  Reaching the highest point on Mountain Pike, they turned up a side road and reached the path that led up the mountain. Very few persons made the ascent; the climb was not difficult, but the mountain was infested with rattlesnakes. The young men wore leather puttees and carried long sticks.

  They found that the top of the mountain formed an excellent lookout. In a short while, they located the top of their cottage. The cabin on Seth Wilkinson's property could not be seen because of the trees.

  "That's the trouble," observed Bruce. "We're looking down at an angle. I can't even see the Ridge Road."

  "There's a portion of it, where it leaves the pike."

  "Yes. That's plain enough. Look there, Harry. What's that below the road - that old gray building?"

  Harry adjusted the glasses.

  "It looks like a mass of ruins," he said. "There's a little white building alongside of it."

  Duncan took the field glasses and made observations.

  "It looks like an old stone house," he said. "Stone base, probably, with the top floors wood. There's been a fire there. Not much left of it except the ground floor. I can't figure what the white building is."

  Harry Vincent drew a paper from his pocket.

  "This may tell us," he said. "It's a back number of Culbertville's weekly newspaper. I was in
their office a few days ago, making careful inquiries. I mentioned that I was interested in this part of the country, and they told me they'd obtain an old copy of their paper that contained information about this locality. I picked the paper up this morning, after I left the post office. Put it in my pocket and forgot it."

  He found the desired article and read halfway through it. His face showed sudden interest as he exclaimed:

  "Here it is, Bruce!"

  "Read it," replied his companion, still looking through the glasses. Harry read:

  "Not far from Culbertville is the Marsden house, now a blackened heap of stone. It was built on the site of an old Mennonite church that had been abandoned many years before. About fifty years ago, Harper Marsden, an eccentric resident of Culbertville, purchased a tract of land adjoining the old church property and chose that spot to build his home.

  "The first floor was of stone, raised above an extensive basement, but the upper stories were made of wood. The building was erected close beside the old cemetery, which was all that remained after the church had been torn down.

  "Harper Marsden lived there for several years; he was a wealthy bachelor and seemed to like his melancholy abode. He said that it would be his resting place, and in anticipation of his death he erected a mausoleum near his home. His prophecy that he would be buried there came true, but not as he expected it. The house was destroyed by fire, and Harper Marsden died amid the flames. His body was never recovered; it was probably lost beneath the stone wall at the rear, which crumbled into a mass.

  "Since that event, no attempt has been made to restore the property. The front of the basement was not completely destroyed; it is still covered by the first floor. When the ruins were searched in hopes of discovering the body of the owner, two men were injured by falling stones. Since then the place has been avoided as dangerous.

  "The property stands back from Mountain Pike, below Ridge Road. It was reached by a lane extending from Ridge Road, but the byway has fallen into disuse and has long since become little more than a path.