The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  Burgess, he learned, was still living at the house of the murdered millionaire. Mrs. Laidlow was at home, but neither she nor her two sons were to be seen. They were going away shortly; already packing for a trip to Florida, and it was understood that Burgess was going with them.

  The secretary had proven his worth by his valiant effort to apprehend the man who had murdered his employer. He belonged definitely to the Laidlow family, and it was obvious that the wife of the dead millionaire would rely upon Burgess to identify the murderer - if the criminal should be captured.

  With both Burgess and Bingham as material witnesses, there was an excellent chance that the murderer would be recognized when - and if - arrested.

  During his second week at Holmwood Arms, Vincent began to study the guests at the hotel. There must be some possible clew to the murder in the town of Holmwood - that is, if The Shadow actually expected clews. But otherwise he would not have ordered Vincent there.

  Since he was to look for clews, and had not yet discovered any, Harry figured the best course would be to work around the inn for a while. For if a clew lay there, it would be positive negligence to overlook it while it was so close at hand.

  When this idea first occurred to Harry, his original thought was to watch the guests who seemed most reticent to talk. He looked for suspicious characters, for persons who kept to themselves and who did not make friends.

  There were several guests of this type, but Harry soon realized that his plan was wrong. Any man who might be bold enough to stay so close to the scene of a murder with which he had some connection would seek to avoid suspicion.

  Harry tried to picture himself in the place of the imaginary man. How would he behave? In a friendly way, of course. Very much in the way Vincent was now acting - playing the part of a man who had some occupation which did not require all of his time or effort.

  As he spent only a few hours of the day at his typewriter, Harry had an excellent opportunity to look for guests of his own type. There were five men at the hotel whose occupations seemed sketchy. He chatted with them frequently, and gradually eliminated them until he came to Elbert Joyce - a man about forty years of age, a talkative fellow who knew many subjects and loved to swing his conversation from one theme to another.

  Joyce claimed to be a salesman. He had left one concern and was awaiting another job on the road - a job which had been promised positively. In the meantime he was taking things easy - why shouldn’t he? He made plenty of money, so he said, and knew how to salt some away.

  “I never worry about money,” he told Harry. “I always have it; I always can get it.”

  Joyce was affable and entertaining. He seemed always occupied with some trivial matter.

  Harry came upon him in the lounge room in the afternoon. Joyce was working on a cross-word puzzle in a newspaper. Vincent laughed.

  “Thought that stuff was out of date, Joyce,” he said.

  “What’s out of date?”

  “Cross-word puzzles.”

  “Not for an active mind, Vincent.”

  “Don’t you grow tired of them?”

  “Occasionally. But I usually do one a day.”

  Joyce ran his pencil among the squares, completed the last few blocks with amazing rapidity, and turned to another part of the paper.

  “I do these, too,” he remarked, pointing to a jumble of letters.

  “What are they?”

  “Cryptograms. One letter substituted for another. Sort of a code. An old idea but popular again. Poe used a cryptogram in his story, ‘The Gold Bug.’ ”

  Joyce’s pencil was at work. In the spaces below the jumbled letters he began to decipher the complex code.

  “You work quickly,” observed Harry.

  “Most cryptograms are easy,” answered Joyce. “Certain letters must obviously be vowels. E, for instance, is normally a frequent letter. Double letters give a clew also.”

  He was continuing while he spoke and he completed the short cryptogram with apparent ease. Harry marveled at the man’s ability; and at the same time felt apprehensive. He recalled the simple code that he had received from Fellows, and which he had committed to memory. How long would it take a chap like Joyce to decipher such a code? Half an hour, perhaps. Vincent realized that he must be careful if he received a letter.

  Joyce tossed the paper aside, and yawned.

  “How about a ride?” suggested Harry.

  “Where to?”

  “Just around the country. It’s a nice day. My car is outside.”

  “I’ll go with you, Vincent.”

  They rolled slowly up the avenue past the Laidlow home.

  “There’s a puzzle for you,” remarked Harry, waving his hand toward the house of the murdered millionaire.

  “How so?” asked Joyce.

  “The Laidlow murder,” Vincent supplied. “That’s where it happened.”

  “So that’s the house! I recall reading of the murder some time ago. What came of it?”

  “Still unsolved.”

  They were passing the next house.

  “That’s where Bingham lives,” said Harry.

  “Who’s he?”

  “A lawyer who saw the burglar escaping.”

  Joyce gazed indifferently at the old attorney’s house.

  “Thought you might be interested,” observed Vincent. “There’s a real problem. I should think it would intrigue you.”

  “I seldom read about murders.”

  “This was a very big one.”

  “Perhaps. They’re all alike to me. Let the police worry about them. That’s their business.”

  The conversation shifted. Harry headed the car toward the Sound, and they rode along beside the broad sheet of glistening water, watching the distant steamers that looked like tiny toys.

  Elbert Joyce talked constantly; yet his words were emptiness. He compared Long Island Sound with the Great Lakes; he spoke of sales trips he had made to Detroit; he discussed yacht racing and told of a winter he had spent in Havana.

  While Harry listened, his mind kept reverting to a single thought: the indifference that Joyce had expressed regarding the Laidlow murder. This was not consistent with the man’s regular method of conversation. Joyce would talk of any subject that came along - would talk actively until he changed it. Yet he had sidestepped this matter entirely.

  Furthermore, Joyce’s apparent ignorance of the story of the murder must surely be a pose. Joyce did not confine his newspaper reading to the puzzle columns. And being interested in such problems it seemed strange that he would pay no attention to a murder mystery especially one which had occurred so close at hand.

  Perhaps Joyce was connected with the crime! He might even have been the burglar! Harry rejected the latter thought.

  Then he began to form a different suspicion. Joyce, he knew, was a clever man. If he had been an active participant in the Laidlow murder, he would have found some opportunity to slide away before this. Also, Harry recalled, Joyce was a newcomer at Holmwood Arms. He had arrived later than Harry.

  No. It was impossible that Joyce was the murderer, or that he knew much about the crime other than what he might have read of it. Joyce - Harry decided as they rode along - was a crook of a different sort. He was playing another game. He avoided all discussions of criminal activities of any sort simply as a matter of precaution.

  Joyce was probably safe at Holmwood. But why was he there?

  They were swinging back to town. They pulled up at the inn just before dinner, and went into the dining-room together.

  Joyce was beginning to note Harry’s silence. But there were others at their table; the talk was lively and vivacious.

  Harry and Joyce lighted their cigars as they left the dining-room and wandered into the lounge. Here both picked up newspapers. Joyce turned immediately to find a cross-word puzzle. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and blocked in a few letters.

  He looked up to catch a glance from Harry. He threw down the paper in disgust.


  “Darn these puzzles,” Joyce said. “They’re a lot of foolishness. They annoy me most of the time.”

  He went to a card table close by, and called to the attendant for a pack of cards. He began a game of solitaire.

  Harry went on reading. His mind was at work. Joyce, he realized, had overstepped himself and knew it. He had shown too much interest in puzzles during the afternoon; now he was trying to disclaim his enthusiasm.

  Harry strolled out on the porch. It was a moderately warm Indian Summer evening. He enjoyed the air and talked for a while with several of the other guests.

  Then he went back to the lounge. Three other men had joined Joyce, and the four were playing poker. They invited Harry to sit in with them, but he declined. Instead, he took the easy-chair and finished reading the paper. He puffed his cigar contentedly as he lolled back in the chair.

  “I’ll take two cards,” he heard Joyce say.

  Harry opened his eyes. Joyce was dealing. His hand was turned toward Harry. And that young man’s eyes opened even more widely. For Joyce was discarding the ace of spades and the ace of clubs, to hold three small diamonds in his hand!

  His curiosity aroused, Vincent watched for the outcome. He did not see the cards that Joyce dealt to himself; for each man at the table was playing his hand tight. But after the bets were made and the pile of chips had accumulated, Joyce spread his hand on the table and exhibited five diamonds - a flush which won the pot.

  Harry left the room unnoticed while Joyce was raking in the chips.

  “So that’s your game, Mr. Joyce,” Harry observed to himself. “A smooth crook - a gentleman gambler. A man who lives to unravel problems, but hesitates to talk of crime!”

  Harry was thoughtful as he stood on the porch.

  The game had not been one for large stakes. No one gambled high at Holmwood Arms. Why then was Joyce operating here?

  Harry smiled as he deduced the answer.

  Joyce was in Holmwood on a mission. His services were required by some one - for something. He had been at the inn less than a week. Probably he was still awaiting a call.

  In the meantime, the opportunity for picking up expense money by his artifice at the card table was too good to resist. Hence the shifty work that Harry had observed. It was a clew to Joyce’s main purpose, in that it proved the man to be a crook of some caliber.

  Here was something to report to Fellows. Harry had not yet heard from the insurance broker, nor had he visited New York.

  He’d wait one day more, Harry decided. He would watch Joyce during the afternoon and evening, and perhaps gain some added information.

  The day after tomorrow he would report to the office in the Grandville Building.

  CHAPTER XV

  TWO MEN MEET

  At breakfast the next morning, Harry Vincent ate his bacon and eggs with real zest. The day was pleasant and he was satisfied. As the agent of The Shadow, he was showing progress. He wondered just what significance would be attached to the information he had gained concerning Elbert Joyce.

  More than that, he had a positive feeling that something else would follow. From the moment that he had come upon Joyce working out a puzzle in the paper, Harry had started on a steady trail. A night had intervened; but he believed the day held more in store.

  Joyce was certainly awaiting a definite time. The man had been at Holmwood Arms for several days now. Perhaps he might wait longer. Harry hoped not. He disliked leaving Holmwood before Joyce had taken action. It would be best to wait before reporting to Fellows.

  Joyce was not at breakfast, but he appeared on the porch a short time after. Harry greeted him cordially, then left for his room and killed an hour by punching the typewriter.

  After that, Harry strolled down to the porch. Joyce was still there.

  The morning and afternoon passed slowly. Harry walked downtown after lunch, but did not stay long. He knew that his place was at the inn, keeping tabs on Joyce’s actions. But nothing happened before dinner, and he found himself seated at the same table with Joyce in the dining-room.

  “How was everything today?” inquired the affable Joyce.

  “So-so,” answered Harry. “I did a little writing, off and on. The weather’s too mild and pleasant to bother much about work.”

  “Perhaps you find it that way. I’m anxious to get moving, though,” replied Joyce. “I’m looking forward to my traveling job.”

  “That’s the proper spirit.”

  “But I still have a wait ahead of me. Two weeks at least.”

  “It’s a long while if you’re bored.”

  “Too long. But it’s all in the game.”

  The conversation pleased Harry. He knew that Joyce would try to lay a false trail as to the length of time he intended to stay at the inn. “Two weeks” would more likely prove to be two days.

  Harry sensed that action was approaching.

  Joyce found a note in his mail-box after dinner. He read it by the desk in the lobby and carried it with him as he strolled out to the porch. Harry, watching from the doorway, observed him tear the paper to small pieces which he scattered in the wind.

  There was a card game in the lounge. Joyce came in and watched. He was invited to participate, but declined. Harry, idling by the window-seat, regarded this as important. If Joyce could resist the temptation of taking some more easy money from the card players at Holmwood Arms, it meant that he had important work afoot that night.

  Harry pulled a few written sheets of paper from his pocket, and pretended to read them as he walked from the lounge into the lobby. He timed his progress so that his path converged with that of Joyce. They almost bumped together, due to Harry’s feigned preoccupation.

  Joyce laughed.

  “Don’t try that stunt crossing a street,” he warned.

  Harry grinned sheepishly.

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he said. “Guess I’ll wander upstairs and type these notes while they’re still fresh. I scrawl away so fast that sometimes I can’t read my own writing.”

  He entered the elevator. Upon reaching the fourth floor where his room was located, Harry stuffed the notes into his pocket. As soon as the elevator had continued upward, he came down the carpeted stairway. Harry was treading quietly when he reached the landing that looked down on the lobby and commanded a view of the lounge. Joyce was not in sight.

  Harry walked to the doorway, and inspected the porch. If Joyce were there, he must be lost in the darkness. It was worth while to go out. Even if Joyce should be in the obscurity of the veranda, and should hail him, it would be easy enough for Harry to make the excuse that he had forgotten something he had meant to get at the village.

  So Vincent went down the broad steps and started up the road that led to the avenue.

  Away from the hotel he walked along the grass beside the sidewalk. He walked rapidly, with keen intention. He was acting on the hunch that Joyce had gone up that street a few minutes before.

  He saw a figure ahead of him. The other man was walking on the grass also. The fellow reached the end of the road and come beneath a light at the corner.

  Harry recognized Joyce as the man drew his watch from his pocket and looked at it.

  A hedge at the left of the sidewalk afforded a good retreat. Harry was close by the hedge; he became motionless in the darkness as he still watched Joyce. His precaution proved useful, for the man at the corner looked back down the sidewalk for fully ten seconds. Then, apparently convinced that no one watched him, Joyce turned and went to the left.

  Harry suppressed an exclamation of satisfaction. The town was to the right. Joyce was going in the opposite direction.

  Still close to the friendly hedge, Harry made his way to the corner, combining speed with caution. There he stopped.

  The light made it unsafe for him to turn the corner. Should Joyce look back along the sidewalk of the avenue, anyone at the corner would be a direct target for his gaze.

  There was an opening in the hedge and Harry slipped
through to the property of the corner house. Stopping, he moved along the line of the avenue. It was fortunately a moonless night. There was little likelihood of anyone seeing him if he proceeded carefully.

  After walking quietly for thirty or forty feet, Harry popped his head above the hedge, which came to the level of his shoulders. Instantly he dropped from view. For he had seen a spark of light beyond the sidewalk - the light of a glowing cigarette.

  The hedge was a scraggly, ill-kept mass of shrubbery. Harry discovered an opening in it, and peered through.

  Yes, a man was standing beside a tree - the tree being between him and the corner, some forty feet back. Was it Joyce?

  Harry suspected that it was, but he had no proof. He only knew that the man had taken a position which would make him virtually invisible from the corner; and it was at the corner that Joyce had looked to see if he were being followed.

  The cigarette-ember dropped to the ground. Its smoker stood quietly, facing the avenue.

  Then Harry saw him fumbling in his pocket for another cigarette. A match flared, and as it was raised to the smoker’s face, Harry grinned in the darkness. The tiny flame had revealed the features of Elbert Joyce.

  Three minutes of waiting. Harry sat behind the hedge, waiting.

  Suddenly a car drove up and stopped. The door was opened instantly. Joyce stepped into the car, the door was closed, and the automobile was on its way down the street.

  Harry scrambled hastily through the hedge and rushed to the street. He stood there in chagrin. His man had eluded him in the twinkling of an eye.

  Harry had been unable to identify the car through the hedge. He had reached the street too late to see more than the tail-light and the black back of the car. The license plate could not be distinguished at that distance.

  Harry cursed his stupidity. He had surprised Joyce while the man was on a mysterious errand, and now his quarry had escaped. It was another incident to add to his report, but that was all.