The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  He decided to go back to the inn and bring out his own car. Perhaps if he drove to the town he might be able to track the other automobile, but he doubted it.

  A car was coming up the avenue from the village. Harry stepped back on the sidewalk, and watched it through the darkness. It was moving slowly, and Harry had a sudden thought.

  Could it, by any chance, be the same car that had picked up Joyce? Since Joyce was keeping a secret meeting, it was reasonable to suppose that the car might have turned and reversed its course after Joyce had entered it.

  The car was moving slowly, and it seemed worth Harry’s while to follow it. For the avenue continued less than a mile, before it turned into a stretch of barren, poorly-paved road. Furthermore - Vincent thought of this as he was already dog-trotting after the automobile - the avenue went by the Laidlow residence.

  The car was out of sight by the time Harry reached the millionaire’s home. He was disappointed when he could see no sign of an automobile either in the avenue or in the driveway.

  Harry crossed the street, and was about to turn and go back when he glanced up the avenue and dimly made out the tail-light of a distant car. He watched it intently. The car must have been parked. It was on the right side of the road.

  Vincent hurried along to investigate. He came to a driveway. It was the entrance to the home of Ezekiel Bingham, the lawyer.

  Then two thoughts clicked together. It must have been Bingham’s car that had come slowly along the street. The old man’s characteristic method of driving would be hard to duplicate.

  Yet a glance up the drive failed to show any car there.

  Harry kept on, with a new thought in mind. Perhaps the parked car belonged to the lawyer. Well, he remembered the license number of the lawyer’s car - he had noted it when following the car from town some days before.

  Slipping among the trees that stood between the sidewalk and the avenue, Harry approached the car. The license plate was Bingham’s. But was Joyce in the automobile with the lawyer?

  Harry, with deliberate boldness, slipped along beside the car, crouching near the grass. The car was parked beside a tree. Harry moved beside the thick tree-trunk, and listened.

  He could hear nothing at first. If there were any conversation in the car, it must be in an undertone. Harry stepped a trifle forward, silent as a cat.

  The front window of the car squeaked as it was lowered. Harry was glad that it had been closed when he had made his false step.

  He listened again. Whoever was in the car must have been on guard for Harry could not catch the slightest sound of talk. It was tense there in the darkness.

  Harry wondered what he would do if he were discovered. The best plan seemed to be to avoid discovery.

  All was silent there on the road beyond Ezekiel Bingham’s home. It was an excellent spot for a secret conversation, for the lightest footfalls on the pavement or the motor of the smoothest car could easily be heard approaching.

  So Vincent waited, breathless, knowing that if he did not betray himself, a conversation might eventually commence, unless -

  He was right. Some one spoke.

  It was the old lawyer. Harry could not catch the words of the querulous voice. He edged even closer to the car, arriving at his new position just as Ezekiel Bingham completed a sentence.

  There came a distinct reply to the lawyer’s question.

  Harry could hear the words - plainly now - from his new vantage point. But it was not that which made him exult; it was the voice of the speaker - a voice which he instantly recognized.

  Old Bingham’s companion was Elbert Joyce!

  CHAPTER XVI

  WHAT VINCENT HEARD

  “All right, Mr. Bingham. I’ll do anything you ask,” had come Joyce’s words to Harry Vincent’s ears.

  “I knew I could count on you,” was the lawyer’s reply. The words were distinct, for Harry was closer to the car and the window was open.

  “I’ve been waiting several days to hear from you,” said Joyce.

  “That couldn’t be helped,” Bingham replied tersely.

  “Why not?”

  “That’s my business, Spider.”

  “Please don’t use that name. Call me Joyce. I’m used to it. I want to forget the past.”

  The old lawyer responded with a tittering laugh.

  “That’s just what I wanted to know,” he said. “You would like to forget the past. Well, we will both forget it, if you will keep quiet about this matter.”

  “That suits me.”

  “Let me warn you, Spider - excuse me - Joyce. I pulled you out of one jam. The jury acquitted you, and you owe it all to me.”

  “I paid you plenty for it.”

  “Of course you did. It was worth all you paid, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “But I would dislike to see you in court again - charged with another and greater crime.”

  Joyce was silent.

  “I have the goods on you, Joyce,” said the lawyer. “The real goods. One word to the police and you would be a hunted man. But it’s not my business to make trouble for you. You are safe - so long as you play fair.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Bingham.”

  “You had better do so. When I strike, they feel it. I have sufficient evidence in my office to bring about the conviction of two dozen men who are now unsuspected. What is more, I can put any man in jail whether he is a criminal or not.”

  “How?”

  “By a frame-up. Phony evidence is my specialty, Joyce. You ought to know that. It helped you out.”

  Joyce was again silent.

  “Frankly speaking, Joyce,” resumed the lawyer, “there is not much difference between my game and the game of the men I defend in court. But I know the law. I work with it; they fight against it. I am telling you this because you are a man of intelligence.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “I mean it. I want you to understand the circumstances. The odds are all in my favor. The cards are stacked for me. You know the advantages of a stacked deck, I take it.”

  Joyce laughed.

  Harry smiled grimly as he recalled the card game at Holmwood Arms the night before.

  “All right, Mr. Bingham,” said Joyce. “What do I have to do to keep in right?”

  “Listen, Joyce,” answered the lawyer. “I’m going to treat you right. I’m not asking you to work for nothing. I didn’t tell you to come here so I could threaten you and save some money that way. You can use some cash, can’t you?”

  “Absolutely and always. I’m pretty low. The poker pikers over at the inn have been paying my expenses without knowing it.”

  “Well, here’s the story, Joyce. Let’s check it up to date. A pal of yours told you to stop at Holmwood Arms until you received a note telling you what to do. You received my instructions tonight; you met me as specified. Did you know I was the man you were to meet?”

  “I half suspected it.”

  “I thought so. Well, we are here, and the rest is easy for you. I picked you because you are an expert when it comes to solving codes.”

  “I’ve done some good work in that line.”

  “Well, I have a code that I want solved. It contains some information that is important to me. I am giving you a copy. Here it is.”

  Harry could see Joyce lean forward to examine a paper by the light on the dashboard.

  “All numbers,” remarked the gambler.

  “Yes,” agreed Ezekiel Bingham. “Can you solve it?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have the original?”

  “It is in my safe at home, sealed in an envelope. The copy is exact.”

  Joyce leaned back in the seat, and Harry could see him thrust the paper in his inside pocket.

  “What do you make of it?” questioned the lawyer.

  “Not much yet,” replied Joyce.

  “Will it be easy to solve?”

  “No.”

  “How long will you require?”


  “I can’t tell.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it may simply be a key. If it’s a code, I’ll get it, no matter how clever it is. It may take me three or four days. I’ll use every possible method.”

  “Suppose you don’t decipher it.”

  “Then I’ll know it’s not a code.”

  “What good will that do me?”

  “Well, if it’s a key and not a code, I’ll compare it with all the systems that I have studied; and I have plenty of those. I’ll hit on some sort of a solution, I expect. I’ve never failed yet.”

  “All right, Joyce. Remember, I rely on you. I want concentrated action until you complete the job.”

  “I’ll start on it tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. But remember - not a word to anyone. Absolute secrecy. That’s all I require. If you can gain any information from the message, forget it as soon as you have delivered the solution to me.”

  “I promise you that.”

  “Then keep your promise. I am friendly toward you, Joyce. I may use you again, to your advantage. Only remember that I have the upper hand; that my game is safe while yours is not. Nothing that I know will ever be used against you so long as you play square. Pay no attention whatever to any of my affairs; that is the safest course for you.”

  “I agree with you, Mr. Bingham.”

  There was the sound of paper crinkling. The old lawyer passed something to the other man.

  “Six hundred dollars, Joyce,” Bingham. “It’s worth that to me. I’m paying you in advance. I want service with results as soon as possible.”

  “How will I communicate with you?”

  “Call my office and ask for an appointment.”

  “Where shall I stay - at Holmwood Arms?”

  “Not now. I wanted you close by until I was ready to see you. You can leave now - tomorrow some time. Choose a private spot where you can work - somewhere where your old cronies won’t find you.”

  “All right, Mr. Bingham.”

  The lawyer’s next words were drowned by the sound of the self-starter. Harry slipped away from the running board, and sought shelter behind a tree as the car pulled away. He walked back toward the inn, stopping only for a few seconds as Bingham’s car went by. It had gone down the road, had turned, and was now heading for the town.

  During his walk, Harry tried to find some significance that concerned the message which Ezekiel Bingham wanted decoded. He decided that it was probably something that pertained to a case in court perhaps involving some criminal whom the lawyer was going to defend.

  The episode that had just transpired explained Elbert Joyce’s lack of interest in the Laidlow murder. Obviously the man himself had no connection with the crime. But Ezekiel Bingham was involved as a witness, and the gambler had realized that the lawyer had summoned him to Holmwood. Hence he had been anxious to avoid any conversation that might bring up a discussion of Ezekiel Bingham.

  Satisfaction and disappointment mingled in Harry’s mind. He had outwitted Joyce, to be sure. He had information of a very definite nature, concerning a man who was admittedly a crook. But he could make no connection between it and the crime which had been committed in the Laidlow home.

  Still, the next step doubtless would be an immediate report to Mr. Claude H. Fellows.

  Harry waited in the lounge until Elbert Joyce returned, a half an hour later. The gambler passed directly through the lobby, going upstairs to his room. He did not come down again.

  As the evening continued, Vincent began to wonder what the code-expert was doing. Perhaps the six hundred dollars had spurred him on to immediate effort. Would it be advisable to drop in on Joyce and surprise him at his work?

  This was an idea that led to other thoughts.

  Harry Vincent went upstairs to his own room to plan a course of action. He could, of course, keep tracking Joyce after the man left Holmwood Arms. It would be ideal if he could gain possession of the code after Joyce had deciphered it.

  Still it would be better if he could take the code from Joyce and carry it with him when he went to see Fellows. That would mean robbery, however, and Vincent did not relish the thought. So far, crime had been totally absent from the duties which he had been required to perform for The Shadow.

  His mind wandered from his objective to thoughts of the purpose that had brought him to Holmwood. What did The Shadow want? What was his interest in the Laidlow affair? Was he a friend of the millionaire’s family or was he in league with the man behind the crime?

  Was he working with the police or was he playing some strange game of his own?

  These questions bothered Harry. They made him forget Joyce for a time. But eventually his thoughts returned to the man who had received the code from Ezekiel Bingham, and Harry was seized with an uncontrollable desire to get busy.

  It was now nearly midnight. He left his room and went to the stairway. He descended to the third floor and tiptoed along the hall to the doorway of Elbert Joyce’s room. No light appeared beneath the door. Joyce, likely, was asleep.

  Harry tapped lightly on the door. He tapped again - a trifle louder. He hoped that he would not awaken Joyce. He was but framing an excuse for the disturbance in case the man might come to the door.

  But all was silent.

  Slowly, Harry turned the knob. He was determined to enter the room, on the mere chance that he might find the message to be decoded lying somewhere accessible.

  Harry could take it, copy it, and then return it. There was a real idea, Harry thought. It required care, to be sure, but would be worth the chance.

  Within the room, Harry listened for the sound of Joyce’s breathing, but heard nothing. He moved across to the bed, and slowly laid his hand upon the covers. There was no one in the bed.

  He walked to the wall and pressed the switch. The electric lights revealed an empty room. The bed was made. No clothes were in view; not even a suitcase was in evidence.

  Harry opened the closets and looked beneath the bed. No sign of an occupant. Then he looked at his watch and realized what had happened. Within the last three quarters of an hour, Elbert Joyce had checked out of the inn and had in all probability taken the midnight train for New York.

  Harry returned to his own room somewhat crestfallen. He had not wanted to lose track of Elbert Joyce. It would now be virtually impossible to trail him, for he had been instructed by Ezekiel Bingham to pick some little-known spot for his hideaway. Nevertheless, the bird was out of the nest, and wishes would not bring him back.

  Harry, returning to his room, phoned down instructions to be called at eight o’clock. He slept soundly that night, after a half hour of concentration in the darkness, during which time he reviewed the details of the last few days.

  In the morning he brought his car from the garage and drove to the city. It was a short journey, but traffic was heavy over the bridge. It was nearly ten o’clock when he called at the office of Claude H. Fellows.

  The insurance broker accepted his arrival in a matter-of-fact way, listening methodically while Vincent recounted his story. He asked that certain details be repeated, then suggested that his visitor wait for further instructions. He opened the bottle of blue ink and wrote a lengthy note that he sealed in an envelope and tendered to the stenographer for delivery. On second thought, he decided that Vincent could step out a while to return later in the day.

  At two o’clock, Vincent came back to the insurance broker’s office. The Shadow’s agent invited him into the inner office.

  “Compliments and commendations,” remarked Fellows, “are not a part of this business, Vincent. I have learned not to expect them. You must learn as much.

  “Hence, I have no comment to offer regarding the information that you have obtained. I sent it to Jonas’ office in synopsis form so that I might receive instructions for you. The instructions have come. You are to return to Holmwood. Leave your car there, and come to New York by rail, prepared to stay for a few days. Stop at the Metrolite, a
s usual, and report to me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.

  “But remember, Vincent” - Fellows was smiling knowingly - “if commendation is lacking when you expect it, do not be disappointed. For we make mistakes quite frequently; and when we do, no fault is found with us. That makes things equal.”

  Harry arrived at the Metrolite early the same evening. He registered at the hotel with a feeling of satisfaction. For he knew that developments were under way, and in his heart he was sure that The Shadow was pleased with his discoveries.

  CHAPTER XVII

  BINGHAM SEES A SHADOW

  Ezekiel Bingham sat in his upstairs study. The room was on the second floor of the lawyer’s compact home at Holmwood, Long Island. It was after midnight, but the old man did not seem weary.

  In fact, Ezekiel Bingham slept very little. He was one of those unusual persons who required very little rest. He had trained himself from youth to be content with four or five hours of repose.

  He never went to bed until dawn. He slept during the morning, arising before noon, and only visited his office in New York after mid-day. This was his constant procedure except when he was to appear in court, then he altered his routine in order to meet the occasion.

  Hence Ezekiel Bingham worked while others slept. He secretly attributed much of his capability to that fact. The hours of the night were silent ones. They were hours for concentrated action.

  Bingham was a widower - his wife had died many years before. His companion in the house was a male attendant named Jenks who had been with him for years.

  Jenks slept on the same floor as did Bingham. He was a powerful fellow, faithful, reliant and of reasonably good intelligence. A native intelligence, for Jenks’ education had been neglected; he could scarcely read or write.

  Jenks was always up before Ezekiel Bingham retired. He was on duty all day and in the early evening. He went to bed when the lawyer came in for the night. Hence some one was always awake and about in the Bingham house.

  The night after his secret meeting with the man who called himself Elbert Joyce, the old lawyer had taken his usual evening ride down to Holmwood, leaving the faithful Jenks in the house. Upon his return at half past ten, Bingham had dismissed Jenks. The man was now sound asleep in another room.