The Living Shadow s-1 Read online

  “The crude way in which the note was left on the table partly finished was one proof. The pains that English Johnny took to hide the envelope which he addressed was a second proof.

  “English Johnny was watched tonight. He will be watched tomorrow night. He will be watched every night. That is one way to find the meeting place.

  “Bingham must be traced. If discovered, he too will lead the way to the meeting place.

  “For that is where the gems will be.”

  The sheet of paper was taken between two supple hands. It was torn to tiny fragments, which eventually found their resting place in the palm of the left hand.

  The ray of the flashlight disappeared.

  Silence continued through the dark, empty house. A window opened noiselessly and shut again. Under the pressure of an unseen blade of steel, the lock was quietly restored to its original position.

  The watchman, finishing another round of the premises, threw his lantern so it shone upon the lawn. Again he watched the flitting shadows - shadows of the boughs of trees that swayed back and forth in the light autumn breeze.

  Strange - those shadows. He fancied that he saw one glide across the lawn and merge with the darkness that lay beyond the hedge.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  VINCENT SEARCHES

  A night’s sleep at the Metrolite Hotel had proven an excellent tonic to Harry Vincent. The nerve-racking experiences of the previous evening had brought on fitful dreams until early in the morning; time and again he had imagined that the bed was swaying with the motion of a fast-moving automobile.

  But at last Harry had fallen into a restful slumber. When he awoke shortly after nine o’clock, he felt unusually alert and was eager to learn what the new day held in store.

  He reported at Fellows’ office before ten o’clock.

  “I was just about to call you,” said the insurance broker as they sat together in the inner office. “I have received instructions which are quite important - in fact, they concern work that may occupy your time for several days to come.

  “Your mission is simple, but extremely important. You must locate Ezekiel Bingham, the criminal lawyer.”

  “Have you any idea where he may be?” Harry asked. “I know that he has left Holmwood, but I have no knowledge of where he went.”

  “That is the difficulty,” smiled Fellows. “The only information is that which you brought in yesterday - namely that Bingham is not in Holmwood. Perhaps you may be fortunate enough to discover some clew that may enable you to find the man.”

  “How soon must he be found?”

  “As soon as possible. The matter is urgent.”

  “I doubt that anyone in the town of Holmwood knows where he has gone.”

  “Perhaps some one knows. It is your work to find out.”

  “Jenks might know.”

  “Call at Bingham’s house, then.”

  “What excuse shall I make?”

  “State that you must see the lawyer on an important legal matter.”

  “How soon shall I start?”

  “Immediately.”

  Harry arose and picked up his hat, but the insurance broker stopped him before he reached the door.

  “What about your car?” asked Fellows.

  “That’s right,” replied Harry ruefully. “I lost it last night.”

  Fellows smiled.

  “It is waiting for you in the garage at Holmwood Arms,” said the insurance broker. “You will need it in your hunt for Ezekiel Bingham.”

  “It will certainly be necessary,” replied Vincent.

  “Do you have the key to the back of the car?” asked Fellows.

  Vincent produced the key.

  “You will need it,” said Fellows.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you. If you locate the missing lawyer you may find him in some distant place.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You will have to send word at once.”

  “I can telephone to you.”

  “That may be impossible. It may be necessary for you to stay close to watch Bingham. You may be in a place where a telephone is inaccessible.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “That is why I asked you if you had the key to the back of the car. Should you discover Bingham, and be far from a telephone, unlock the back of the car, and you will find a box within.”

  “What is the purpose of the box?”

  “You will discover that if you need to communicate. Here is the key to the box. Use it only if necessary; do not open the box unless an emergency arises. A letter inside the box will explain its purpose.”

  “What information shall I give if I find Bingham?”

  “Send word exactly where he is; if he leaves, follow him and report again. Do not lose him once you have discovered his whereabouts.”

  “Are there any other instructions?”

  “No, that is all. There is a train for Holmwood in twenty minutes. You will have just enough time to make it.”

  Harry puzzled about his new assignment after leaving the insurance broker’s office. Now he sat in the smoking car of the Long Island train, half listening to snatches of conversation between the other passengers. He realized that if he expected to locate Ezekiel Bingham he must not neglect a single opportunity for information. Harry knew commuters could be great gossips.

  But luck was against him.

  Harry had been fortunate the day before when he had learned that the criminal lawyer was not in Holmwood. Some one had seen his car leaving the village.

  That was all; for Ezekiel Bingham was a silent man who rarely spoke to any one. It was quite unlikely that he would have let drop an inkling of his destination to any of the townspeople

  It might be days - it might be a week - before Harry could obtain a single clew. He would have to trust to chance; yet he must not be idle. Accordingly he formulated his plans - few as they were, before the train reached Holmwood.

  Finding his coupe at the garage, Harry drove to Ezekiel Bingham’s house and parked the car a short distance from the place.

  Then he went up the front walk and knocked at the door. It all seemed different from his last visit, when he had approached with stealth, and had tried that same door to find it unlocked.

  Jenks responded to Harry’s knocking.

  “Is Mr. Bingham at home?” inquired Harry.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you expect him shortly?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It is very important. I must see him. Can I reach him at his office?”

  “He is not there, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I just called, sir.”

  “Do they expect him there?”

  “Not today, sir.”

  “Will he be here this evening?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Isn’t there any way that I can reach him?”

  “I don’t know of any place, sir.”

  “Is he away from New York?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “This is very important. I expected to find Mr. Bingham at home. I have come to see him regarding an important lawsuit. I must see him today.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He is not here.”

  “Didn’t he leave any word where he might be reached?”

  “None at all, sir.”

  “Isn’t there anyone who can give me information?”

  “You might call the office, sir.”

  “I’ll try that. I guess it’s the only thing to do.”

  “Do you wish to leave a message, sir?”

  “No. It would be useless. I must see Mr. Bingham personally.”

  Harry was convinced that Jenks had been telling the truth. It was obvious that the man had no idea where his employer might have gone.

  The lawyer’s office would provide no information. Fellows had tried both by telephone and by personal call, but had learned nothing from that source. The only reply had bee
n that Mr. Bingham was not there; that his associates would be glad to interview clients in his place.

  It would avail Harry nothing to try again where the efficient Fellows had failed.

  So Harry drove to the village, where he whiled away two hours trying to pick up stray bits of local news. The loiterers in the cigar store talked of various subjects, but did not mention Ezekiel Bingham. A casual inquiry addressed to the teller in the bank brought no information concerning the old lawyer. Even at the post office and at the station, Harry had no luck whatsoever.

  He ate lunch in the village restaurant and chatted there a while with any one who would talk to him, ever bringing the conversation around to Ezekiel Bingham. But his efforts were without results.

  About two o’clock he climbed in his car and started slowly back to the inn to think the matter over. Perhaps some one at Holmwood Arms might have seen the old lawyer since he had left town. It was worth a chance, anyway.

  Harry was getting disgusted with the fruits of discretion. He intended to inquire openly and let those whom he questioned draw their own conclusions and talk all they liked.

  Going up the road to the inn, Vincent happened to glance through the coupe’s rear window. He caught a glimpse of the head of a boy clinging, evidently, to his spare tire.

  Harry stopped the car to remonstrate with the youth. Leaping to the ground, he caught the youngster by the arm before the lad could run away.

  “What’s the idea? Want to get hurt?” Harry demanded severely.

  “Just hookin’ a ride,” replied the boy.

  “It’s dangerous business. A bump in the road would be enough to throw you in the street.”

  “I was hangin’ on pretty tight.”

  “Where do you live, son?”

  “Up the road, about a mile past where it gets rough.”

  “Get in with me. I’ll drive you up there right.”

  “Say, that’s swell, mister. Thanks.”

  The boy entered the car with Harry, who surveyed the youth with curiosity. The youngster was shabbily dressed, and his face and hands were dirty. Vincent asked him his age.

  “Twelve years,” replied the boy.

  “You’re old enough to know better than to jump on the back of an automobile,” advised Vincent. “Why don’t you ask people to give you a lift?”

  “Yeah! Try it yourself. They ain’t all good sports like you, mister.”

  They were passing the road that turned off toward the inn, but Vincent kept on. He was interested in the boy, and he would not lose much time by taking him to his home. Harry’s time didn’t seem to be exactly at a premium that day.

  “That’s why I hook rides,” the youngster went on. “Nobody stops when I holler at ‘em.”

  “Suppose they go past your house?” asked Vincent. “What do you do then?”

  “Not many of ‘em goes as far as my house, mister. I ride a ways and walk the rest.”

  “That’s right; not many cars go over that bad stretch.”

  “Besides” - the lad was a talkative little fellow - “I usually hook onto autos that are goin’ slow like yours was. I can drop off easy then when I want to. I generally hop on back of the car that belongs to the guy in there” - the youngster paused to jerk his thumb toward Ezekiel Bingham’s house, which they were passing at that moment - “because he drives slow.”

  “Do you mean Mr. Bingham, the lawyer?” inquired Harry with sudden interest.

  “Yeah. The old crabby guy. Drives around like a slowpoke. But he fooled me yesterday, he did!”

  “How was that?”

  “I hopped on back of his car, an’ he went past his house, so I hung on. An’ when he got to the bad road he started to go like blazes. You wouldn’t think an old guy could run an auto that fast.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I was afraid to let go. I had to hang on an’ ride along with him.”

  “This was yesterday, you say?”

  “Yes - no, it wasn’t, neither. It was day before yesterday, in the afternoon.”

  “How far did he take you?”

  “A mile past the bad road. I thought he wasn’t ever goin’ to slow down. But he turned at a crossroad an’ I had a chance to drop off. I had to walk all the way home again.”

  “Which way did he turn at the crossroad?”

  “To the left. Down the road that goes to Herkwell. Hey, mister, slow up. That’s my house over there.”

  Harry dropped the youth in front of a frame house which needed a coat of paint badly. Then he started the coupe forward and drove rapidly along the poorly paved road.

  He knew the road to Herkwell, which was some twelve miles distant. It was a straight road, with no crossings; a road that was fairly well paved but little used.

  As he came back to the good highway, Harry stepped on the accelerator and grinned as the car sprang onward. He had found the trail at last. The boy’s story had given him the clew he required.

  Old Ezekiel Bingham had gone to Herkwell. A twelve mile trip to that obscure village was clear indication that the lawyer’s destination lay farther out on Long Island.

  Harry turned left at the crossroad, satisfied at the favorable turn in events.

  The Shadow would be pleased.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  ENGLISH JOHNNY’S TRICK

  English Johnny stood at the doorway of his house and glared sullenly down the street. It was daytime - two o’clock in the afternoon - yet he was suspicious.

  An old man, gaunt and weary-looking, was moving slowly along the opposite sidewalk, leaning heavily upon a stout cane. English Johnny had seen the old man earlier in the day, and he wondered why the fellow had returned to this street.

  This was Saturday - an important day for English Johnny. He had an appointment to keep, and that appointment meant much to him. He was not due until eight o’clock at night, but many things could happen in the meantime.

  For one thing, some one might follow English Johnny. A few days ago he would not have worried about such a situation; but the beefy-faced man had learned much to alarm him during the past forty-eight hours.

  There had been that cab driver, for instance. English Johnny had given the fellow his address, and he had a hunch that the man had lied when he had said he forgot it. Then there was the suspected visitation of that sinister wraith - if such it was - The Shadow!

  Last night’s happenings had wiped out all sense of security that English Johnny might have held to. Funny thing, that cab driver showing up in the lunch wagon.

  Johnny had let it be known to several friends that he was going there; and the taxi driver had appeared also. Could there be a leak?

  Perhaps that part of it had been coincidence; but it did not explain the presence of the mysterious man behind the counter - the man who had beaten a crew of gangsters and who had hurled English Johnny across the counter. Bill, the manager of that particular lunch wagon, did not even know the name of the substitute who had caused the trouble!

  English Johnny sauntered down the street and turned the corner of the avenue. After closely regarding a cab that was standing there, assured, he entered the vehicle and gave an address to the driver.

  The cab took him to a house that English Johnny knew was vacant. He rang the bell, waited a few minutes, then hailed another cab and told the driver to take him downtown.

  English Johnny rubbed his tough jaw with pleasure as he considered this ruse. If the first cab had been planted there, with a spy at the wheel, the hounds would now be watching only an empty house.

  Still he was not entirely positive of success. He turned to look behind, and saw another cab - a green one - following. Johnny thrust his head through the open panel and ordered the driver to turn up Eighty-sixth Street.

  The cab in back aped the move.

  The beefy-faced man barked a new command. The driver swung down the avenue and turned back along Eighty-fifth Street.

  The other cab followed suit.

  “Smart guys,” mumbl
ed English Johnny. “Well, I’m just as wise.”

  English Johnny dismissed his cab at Columbus Circle and went into a drugstore. One of the clerks was known to him; he chatted with the fellow for a while. Then he left the store and took the subway to Forty-second Street.

  His next stop was an office building. He entered an elevator. Three or four others joined him in the car.

  At the fifteenth floor he stepped out; another man did the same.

  English Johnny looked about him, and suddenly decided that he had gotten off at the wrong floor.

  He rang the bell for a descending elevator. He noted that the other man was going from door to door, as though searching for an office, the number of which he was uncertain.

  The big, beefy-faced man stepped into the elevator and came down to the street floor. He hurried from the building, jumped into a cab, and rode a few blocks.

  He chuckled as he alighted on a side street just off Broadway.

  “Fooled the fellow that time,” Johnny said to himself. “Left him cold on the fifteenth floor!”

  Then a sudden thought struck him, and he growled angrily.

  “What if there was two of them? I never thought of that! One up and one downstairs, waiting for me.”

  He walked back to Broadway and entered a cigar store, where he bought a supply of black stogies. He lighted one and puffed it thoughtfully. Then he was stricken by an inspiration.

  Entering the phone booth, Johnny called a number.

  “Hello? That you, Kennedy? This is English Johnny… Yeah, I’m feelin’ fine. Goin’ out of town tonight. What?… Oh, up to Buffalo, to look at a lunch wagon. Won’t be back for a week… No, I don’t think I can make it, Kennedy… I’d like to, but I ain’t got time. Train leaves at eight… No, I ain’t bought my ticket yet… All right, I’ll go later; I’ll come on out now… Right now, yes… So long.”

  English Johnny’s red face bore an air of satisfied confidence as he left the cigar store.

  He walked down Broadway at an indifferent pace, past Forty-second Street, and on to Thirty-third. He entered the station of the Hudson Tubes and bought a ticket to Newark.

  The car was nearly full, and the big man gazed curiously at the other passengers, as though he suspected that at least one of them was an enemy.