The Living Shadow s-1 Page 7

  The grass on the front lawn was thick; the ground was quite dry, and not the trace of a footprint could be discovered.

  There were no clews in the study. Some articles had been removed from the safe and scattered upon the floor of the room. There was nothing among the safe’s contents of great value - except the jewels, which were missing.

  There were no traces of fingerprints upon the dials of the safe. The mechanism was an ancient one; the burglar had opened it without resort to tools. The indications were that he was probably a fair expert in the questionable science of safe-cracking.

  The revolver gave no clew. It had belonged to the millionaire, and he had kept it within the safe.

  The burglar had evidently found it there, and had killed Geoffrey Laidlow with the millionaire’s own weapon. The two bullets - the one that had pierced Laidlow’s brain and the one extracted from the secretary’s arm - were found to have been fired from the same pistol. There were no fingerprints upon the firearm.

  The fact that the millionaire’s own gun had been used in committing the murder accounted for the burglar’s readiness to part with the weapon after he had dropped it.

  All this information was no more enlightening to Harry Vincent, as he read the news accounts, than it had been to the police. He was glad that he was not a police detective. He regarded the mystery as completely baffling.

  Nevertheless, he read the hundreds of details that went with the murder story, including such items as the early life of Geoffrey Laidlow, the place the millionaire’s wife held in society, and numerous other facts which led him nowhere.

  Harry studied the pictures of the millionaire’s estate, the newspaper diagrams of the house, the graphic drawings which illustrated the various positions of the participants, including that of the chauffeur running in from the garage at the rear.

  The police were working every device and pulling every cord which might unloosen the ravel. Harry Vincent realized the importance that the police of today place upon crude, but often effective, methods.

  Yet it seemed to him that a master thinker could untangle the snarl more surely. There must be some clew, some opening, which reason could discover while commonplace systems were failing. Still, a man who runs in the dark, and is fortunate enough to leave no telltale footprints, is indeed a difficult quarry.

  Harry could see no purpose in studying the details of this crime. But his instructions had been definite, and he owed so much to The Shadow that it would be both unfair and unwise not to have obeyed orders.

  Harry reached the point where he could picture the entire layout of the Laidlow grounds, and every salient detail of the house himself.

  On the other hand, the Scanlon murder, Harry was pleased to note, had been relegated to the back pages. This was a real relief; it seemed to have been forgotten.

  He read the few reports concerning it, and here he drew a definite conclusion. Steve Cronin was not named, but it seemed obvious that he had been recognized leaving the hotel, or possibly some “stool” had squealed. Knowing their man, the police were probably using the dragnet and communicating with other cities.

  Harry congratulated himself that he had come in for no further questioning about the affair. Since his adventure at Wang Foo’s, it no longer seemed to him of great consequence.

  Harry’s passive investigations of the facts in the Laidlow murder were occupying his mornings, for he had been instructed to remain in his hotel room until eleven o’clock every day. The whole business was like a vacation.

  He had received a package containing a book of blank checks on a large Manhattan bank. Evidently deposits would be made in his name to cover any expenditures. That alone was a source of real satisfaction.

  So, on this morning of the third day, he was comfortable and indolent, idly speculating what the future might bring, when the telephone’s ringing interrupted.

  He lifted the receiver to recognize the voice of Fellows.

  “Mr. Vincent,” came the words, “I would like to see you this morning -“

  The telephone clicked. He had been cut off.

  There was no emphasis in the message. Yet its meaning was obvious. Fellows himself had terminated the conversation, knowing that Vincent would realize his presence was desired at the Broadway insurance office.

  Donning his hat and coat, Harry left the hotel and headed for the Grandville Building. He knew a sensation of keen interest. Somehow, idleness was becoming an annoyance. The rest after his adventure with the dangerous Chinese had been welcome, but he knew that he could never be content with enforced, continued inactivity.

  He was ushered into Fellows’ private office. The chubby, deliberate man behind the desk was discoursing upon everybody’s need for insurance with his stenographer for audience. But when the girl had left the room, the insurance broker quietly changed his topic of conversation.

  “You have followed my instructions?” he asked.

  “Regarding the newspapers?” questioned Harry.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve read about the Laidlow murder.”

  “How does it impress you?”

  “It is extremely confusing.”

  Fellows smiled faintly.

  “You would make a good police detective,” he said in his slow voice. “Those fellows are perplexed.”

  “That’s a good excuse for me,” said Vincent. “I suppose I have a right to be perplexed, too.”

  “I do not ask for excuses,” answered Fellows. “I merely want to know if you have done the work of reading the newspapers.”

  “I have.”

  “Good. Then you are ready for the next step.”

  “What is that?”

  “To go to Holmwood.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you are recalled.”

  Vincent nodded, and awaited further information.

  “You will stay at Holmwood Arms,” explained Fellows. “It is not far distant from the Laidlow home. A room has been reserved for you there. If anyone questions your occupation, give the impression that you are an author who has a moderate income from a legacy. Can you run a typewriter?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “Buy a portable, then. Take it with you. Use it occasionally.”

  “Very well.”

  “You drive a car, don’t you?”

  “When I have one.”

  “You will have one. A coupe is out there now. It has been delivered to the Holmwood Arms garage. It is a used car, but in excellent condition. It will give the idea that you have been driving considerably about the country.”

  The prospect of his new assignment was pleasing to Harry Vincent.

  “I have learned,” resumed Fellows, “that you have a New York driver’s license. That fits in well with the plans. It saves considerable annoyance, such as passing driving tests. Do you have the card with you?”

  “Here it is.”

  “Fine. You are a good driver?”

  “Reasonably good.”

  “Then you can use the car for most purposes. Come into the city with it, if you wish.”

  “When shall I come into the city?”

  “Only when you receive word from me. I may summon you fairly often. In your assumed capacity of a writer, it would be natural for you to come in occasionally. Always carry a briefcase, containing some typewritten sheets.”

  Fellows rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, locked his hands, and set his chin upon them.

  “You have probably guessed the purpose of your trip to Holmwood,” he said. “During your stay there, you will learn whatever you can about the Laidlow murder. Do not act as a detective or an investigator. Simply keep your ears open for anything they may pick up. Try to see or observe anyone who may know anything about it. Note any unusual activities on the part of any of those people.

  “You may even mention the subject yourself, if you see an opportunity of starting discussion. Ask a few questions here and there, but do it casually.

 
; “Do not let the subject worry you. Even if you seem to be drawing blanks, keep on playing the game. Do not forget a single detail that you may discover. Each item is important although seemingly trivial to you. Hold all information in your mind. If you think you have learned something unusual, or if you have accumulated a multitude of details, report directly to me. Otherwise, wait until I call you.”

  “How shall I report?” asked Harry.

  “Always in person.”

  “How will you communicate with me?”

  “As I did today, if I wish to see you. Perhaps you may hear from some one else through emphasized words.”

  “I understand.”

  The insurance broker studied Harry silently. Then he unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, indicating that the interview was nearing its end.

  “Listen carefully,” he said. “You may receive a letter - perhaps several. They will be written in a simple code - certain letters of the alphabet substituted for others. Here is the code,” he passed a sealed envelope across the desk. “There are very few substitutions, so you can memorize them quickly. Destroy this as soon as you have learned it.”

  “Shall I destroy any letters I happen to receive?”

  “That will not be necessary,” smiled Fellows. “They will destroy themselves.”

  The remark was puzzling to Vincent, but he thought it best to make no comment.

  “Best be sure the code is familiar to your mind,” advised the insurance broker. “For you must read each note quickly - immediately after taking it from the envelope. Each letter you receive will be numbered at the bottom. The first will be Number One. Keep a record of these. If any number fails to be received if Number Six, for instance, should arrive before you have received Number Five, notify me immediately. You understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Any questions?”

  “None.”

  The round-faced man rose from his chair.

  “One last word,” he said. “Conduct yourself wisely. Seek to make acquaintances. Avoid making friends.”

  He extended his hand. Harry arose to depart.

  Late that afternoon, Harry Vincent stepped aboard a Long Island Railroad local with a one-way ticket to Holmwood in his pocket.

  CHAPTER XII

  TWO DETECTIVES TALK

  While the Holmwood local was still clicking along the rails toward its destination, two men sat in an office at police headquarters. Their day’s routine had ended; now they were engaged in a discussion which both regarded as important.

  One of the men bore the mark of a police officer long in the service. He was tall, heavy, and domineering. His gray hair lent him a positive dignity, and his face, although full and a trifle pudgy, carried the physiognomy of the thinker as well as that of the man of action.

  The other was shorter, and his dark face bespoke an Italian ancestry. He had certain characteristics of the familiar plainclothes man, but with it there was a calmness of bearing and an ease of expression which was deceptive. His thin lips formed a straight line that never curved upward nor downward, and his dark brown eyes had a sparkle that betokened the quick observer.

  “It’s a tough case, Cardona,” said the big man, thumping thoughtfully upon the table where he sat.

  The Italian shrugged his shoulders. He was standing, looking down at his companion. The latter raised his eyes as though expecting some comment or reply, but he received none.

  “A tough case,” mused the big man.

  “I’ve had tough ones before,” said Cardona. “I’ve landed some; I missed others. But remember” - his voice became significant - “this case means quite as much to Inspector John Malone as it does to Joe Cardona.”

  The big man at the table became suddenly alert. There was a challenge in his expression; he appeared as though demanding an explanation. But as he glanced at the dark eyes before him, he relaxed and laughed gruffly.

  “I guess you’re right, Joe,” he said, looking at the table.

  “You know I’m right,” was the reply. “You know why, too.”

  “Why? Tell me.”

  “You’re higher upon the force. You’ll be the goat.”

  “What about yourself?”

  “I have no competition. You have.”

  “In what way?”

  Cardona leaned forward.

  “Listen, Malone,” he said, emphatically. “You’re an inspector. You were selected. There were other choices, but you got the job. The wolves are waiting right at the door. Make a slip; they’ll come in.”

  “As for you -“

  “As for me? Who’s going to crowd me out? If I get nowhere, it’s a sure bet that none of the other detectives will. The facts prove it. I’ve been getting results from active work. Put another man in my place. Try it. That would be your finish.”

  “I guess you’re right, Joe.”

  “You know I’m right, Malone.”

  “But you aren’t easing up on this case, are you?”

  “Of course not, Malone. But it’s a tough one. You said so yourself.”

  The police inspector grunted.

  “If that thug,” he said, “had had sense enough to use his own rod instead of one he picked up in the safe - well, we’d have something to work on, anyway.”

  “That’s where he was wise,” came the reply.

  “Wise? Using a strange gun?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t have one of his own.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  The two men were silent. Malone continued his monotonous thumping. Cardona was motionless.

  “The boys have been keeping after the servants?”

  The question was Malone’s.

  “They’re out,” replied Cardona.

  “What makes it worse,” mused the inspector, after a pause, “is the fact they got so close to the man. Off he went across the lawn, then the ground might have swallowed him.”

  “Right.”

  “What about that secretary - this fellow Burgess? He gives us a good cold description at the start. Old Bingham coming by outside adds plenty more. Yet from then on -“

  Malone snapped the fingers of both hands.

  Another shrug from Cardona.

  “Well,” drawled Malone, “if we ever get the guy, we’ll have an A-1 witness in old Bingham. This is one crook he won’t defend. If he can give witness testimony like he can handle a case in the courtroom, we’ll have it all clinched.”

  “But let’s get the guy first,” observed the Italian.

  A shadow fell across the table, where Malone’s eyes were gazing. The inspector looked up.

  “Oh, hello, Fritz,” he said in an indulgent tone. “Cleaning up early, eh?”

  The tall, stoop-shouldered janitor looked at him dully.

  “Yah.”

  “You’ve got the best job in the place, Fritz. Know that?”

  “Yah.”

  Cardona laughed without changing the expression of his lips.

  “Yah,” he mimicked. “That’s all I’ve ever heard you say, Fritz. Say, boy, you look kinda pale tonight. Sorta thinner, too. You oughta get a bit of exercise.”

  “Yah.”

  The Italian shrugged his shoulders and looked at Malone.

  “It’s all right, Joe,” said the inspector. “Fritz will be here when we’re gone.”

  The janitor was busy with mop and bucket. The two men paid no further attention to him.

  “Joe,” said the inspector, “you’ve got brains.”

  “Sure I have.”

  “Well, there’s lots haven’t.”

  “Right. That’s what makes brains useful.”

  “Let’s drop the foolishness. You know what this game is, Joe. Hard plugging.”

  “Correct.”

  “That story-book stuff is all applesauce. Grind to get your information. That’s what we do. And we get it.”

  “We’re not getting it now, Malone.”

  “I know it, Joe, and that’s because we’re doing too m
uch grinding. This case is different; it calls for a little fancy headwork.”

  “How?”

  “Listen, Joe. There’s a mind in back of this. There’s been a couple of smaller robberies. Didn’t make much noise, because they were little. We haven’t got to the bottom of them yet, though.”

  “Well, Malone, we haven’t had the best men on them.”

  “I know that. But I figure they were lead-ups to this one. And I figure more. The way I dope it out, there’s been a different gag and a clever gag - in each case. This was the big shot; the others were experiments.”

  “This one is murder.”

  “Yes, Joe, but that wasn’t intended. Now let’s figure it a bit from the viewpoint of the crook that’s running it.”

  “There you go, Malone. You’re assuming this master-crook stuff. You’ve been to the talkies.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s no big crook, Malone. There’s a bunch of little racketeers in town; no big man.”

  The moving arms of the janitor cast a grotesque, pumping shadow over the table before Malone,

  “Move out of the light, Fritz,” growled the inspector.

  The janitor moved across the room, carrying his bucket, and began to mop toward the hall, slowly nearing the door.

  “Look at that Scanlon murder,” said Cardona. “We know who did it. Steve Cronin. Got away, but as soon as we do lay hands on him, he’ll be through. Then take that fellow Croaker - killed the same night. Double-crossed some of his gang. That shows they’re a bunch of cheap racket-men. Some other second-rate crook was out tinkering with Laidlow’s toy safe, and happened to bump off the millionaire. Simple enough - the tough part is, what became of him?”

  The inspector shook his head.

  “I don’t agree with you, Joe.”

  “Well, that’s my opinion.”

  “Change it, then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’ve got to try a new track, Joe. Figure this case as complicated; not simple. First of all, let’s figure what become of the jewels?”

  “They’ll be fenced. That may give us a clew.”

  “I don’t think so, Joe. What about all those little jewel robberies? Do you think they’re holding the stuff? Not by a long shot. Do you know why those jobs were pulled? I’ll tell you what I think, Joe. They’re trying a new way to get rid of the stuff. That’s why none of the jewels have shown up.”