Doom On The Hill

CHAPTER XIV WORD SPREADS

SHERIFF TIM FOREY was paradoxical in his methods. There were times when the big-fisted official remained closemouthed. On other occasions, he decided to talk. No one — not even Forey himself — could explain just which policy would develop.

Forey had tried to preserve secrecy about the death of Grantham Breck. Possibly his failure to track the murderer had made him decide to work differently in the case of Ezekiel Twinton. Whatever the reason, the result was that the story of the Luger pistol reached many ears by nightfall.

People discussed the matter in the town of Chanburg. They carried it with them to Laporte, and other neighboring places. Forey began to feel that he had chosen a good plan. Certain it was that someone had prowled into town last night. There was a chance that some native might bring in word of having seen the person who entered the sheriff’s office.

But Chanburg was a nine o’clock town. Anything that happened after midnight would fail to raise the fast-sleeping burghers. In this section of the hinterland, nothing short of a fire whistle could have aroused the sleepers from their beds.

There was one exception to the rule. Occasionally, people were about at eleven thirty on account of the arrival of the Union Limited. Enterprising folk sometimes came home on that train. There were others, traveling northward, who now and then went out on it.

Harry Vincent was scheduled to stay longer in Chanburg. This made it wise for him to send a routine telegram to Rutledge Mann. Harry happened to go over to the station just about the time the Union Limited was scheduled to arrive. The windows of the waiting room were open when Harry got there. The Shadow’s agent heard voices. He found three passengers for the Union Limited talking outside the ticket window. The train was late.

Harry received a telegraph blank from Zach Hoyler. The agent went back to his table; Harry listened in while he was writing out the message to Mann. The men from town were discussing the developments of the day.

“SAY,” said one, “it ain’t no secret now why Tim Forey’s been looking glum. That first murder had him buffaloed. That’s hot, ain’t it, him finding the gun up at Breck’s?”

“Don’t hold a candle to the second murder,” grunted a second man. “Boy! I’ll bet Forey went cuckoo when he found out the fellow had swiped that German gun and put it back again. Used it to kill Ezekiel Twinton, by heck!”

“Forey’s worried,” announced the third townsman. “Do you know what he’s after? He’s hoping that somebody might have seen that fellow coming in and out. That’s what.”

The other two men laughed. Then the first speaker adopted a serious tone.

“Listen, fellows,” he said. “We’re live wires, us three. So we can talk together; but don’t let nobody in town know what I said. Chanburg’s just about the deadest town on the map. I say that even though I do live there.”

“Is it on the map?” jeered the second man.

“I reckon not,” replied the first. “Say — if we had a nine o’clock curfew most of the folks would complain because it woke ‘em up at night.”

“You’re right, brother.”

“I know it. Well — here’s what I’m driving at. That smart fellow who took that gun and put it back in Tim’s office knew he was plenty safe. There’s two places around here where nobody won’t see you if you walk through after midnight.”

“Chanburg’s one. Is there another?”

“Sure. Over on Brown Hill. The old grave-yard.”

The other townsmen laughed. Their conversation ended abruptly. The whistle of the Limited had sounded. Zach Hoyler was coming from his little office.

Harry Vincent lingered until after the train had left. He pushed the telegram through the ticket window, just as the station agent returned. Turning to go out, Harry ran into a stocky man who had just entered. He saw a square, challenging face. It was Harry Vincent’s first meeting with Perry Nubin.

The Shadow’s agent left. Nubin strolled about. After he heard the coupe roll away, the dick peered through the ticket window. Hoyler had not yet picked up Harry’s telegram. Nubin drew it from the window, read it and put it back. Hoyler came over to get it.

“WELL, gum-shoe,” greeted the agent. “I suppose you were riding stylish again tonight.”

“Yeah,” responded the detective. “Say — I was down in Laporte today. What’s this I hear about another murder? Did somebody plug a guy named Ezekiel Twinton?”

“Someone did. Too bad you weren’t working in back of this window, Hawkshaw. You’d have heard all about it.”

“How come?”

“Tim Forey let the details out. He had the pistol down in his office — the one that was used to murder old Breck — and somebody climbed in there. Used the same gun to bump off Twinton. Then put it back.”

“Humph. Used the Luger again, eh?”

“So Tim admits.”

“Got him puzzled?”

“Plenty. The expert is up from New York. Says the gun fired both bullets.”

“Where’s the pistol now?”

“Guess they’ve put it away in a safe.”

“It won’t do them much good,” remarked Nubin. “It’s tough to trace any killer through a foreign-made gun.”

“Why should it be?” asked Hoyler.

“Well” — Nubin paused — “most guns have a history, leastwise the kind that murderers use. But if old Breck imported that rod direct from Germany — or got it from a smuggler — there wouldn’t be much chance of learning anything. You say the expert’s still around?”

“I didn’t say so, but I expect he is. Maybe Tim figures there’ll be some more shooting.”

“So he’s put the rod out of sight, eh? Well, that may bring in some American gats.”

“Funny thing,” suggested Hoyler, “about old Breck having that pistol in the first place. Tim thinks he was carrying it when he was killed. I wonder why he chose a German gun.”

“Nutty, I guess,” growled Nubin. “He’s the kind of bird who would have wanted something different. Say” — the dick changed the subject — “what about this guy Vincent? Has he been sending these telegrams very often?”

“Pretty often. Guess he’s got a job with that fellow Mann.”

“Must think he’s a big shot, worrying so much about his investments. Say — that fellow Ezekiel Twinton lived up on the hill, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Who lived with him?”

“Two servants. A deaf butler and a Chinese cook.”

“What are they doing now?”

“Tim Forey moved them down into town, I understand. Leaving the old house empty. I guess he brought the dogs along, too.”

“No deputies up there?”

“Why should there be? There’s nothing in that house worth stealing. If there is, it would be easier to move it than to put men guarding a place where nobody’s living.”

“Guess you’re right. Say, Hoyler, tap this through for me.” Nubin reached for a telegraph blank. “Buddy of mine used to work on the B and R. Out of a job in New York; thought maybe I could place him on the Union Valley if he came up to see me.”

“Anything like you?” questioned the agent, while Nubin was writing the telegram. “If he is, that wire don’t go through from this station.”

“There it is,” retorted Nubin, shoving the telegram under the wicket. “Send it and keep the wise-cracks for the rubes down in Chanburg. I’m going out on Sixty-eight.”

THE Dairy Express was on time. It came grinding into the station before Hoyler had a chance to send the telegram. Perry Nubin hopped on between milk cars. He waved to Hoyler as the train pulled out. Number Sixty-eight was lighter than usual. Hoyler watched the train gather speed as it reached the bend.

When the agent came back into the station, he entered the ticket office and picked up the two telegrams. There was a third one lying beneath the others; one that Hoyler had forgotten. It was a message that he had received over the telephone from the Breck house.

That wire had been phoned in shortly before Harry Vincent’s arrival. It made Zach Hoyler ponder. The telegram was addressed to Powers Glidden, who was evidently a New York attorney. It stated that the sender wanted to retain him as advisory counsel.

Hoyler was wondering why Harry had not brought the telegram. He was also puzzled by the signature. It was simply one name: “Breck.” Hoyler recalled the voice that had come over the wire; its tones had been those of Craven, the butler. The man had called the station on previous occasions.

It seemed logical that Elbert might have given Craven the message to send. Perhaps he had formulated the telegram after Harry Vincent had departed for the station. The single name “Breck” was also explainable; but Hoyler had pondered upon the fact that it could have applied to the dead father as well as to the living son.

Perry Nubin’s telegram was to a man named Charles Bland. It was a suggestion that Bland should come to see the detective at Laporte. It was signed by Nubin’s full name. Zach Hoyler stacked Harry Vincent’s telegram with the other two.

Blackness blotted out the lights from the platform as Hoyler began to send the telegrams. That blackness occupied a single window. The Shadow was close at hand. He had heard the conversation between the men from town. More than that, he had seen Perry Nubin listening in outside an opened window.

The detective had not come in on the Limited; but he had actually gone out on the milk train. The Shadow had watched the speed of the departing Dairy Express. He knew that Nubin could not have hopped off at the bend.

The Shadow was listening to the clicks of Zach Hoyler’s key. The agent was finishing for the night. The Shadow listened to the ticks and read them plainly. He understood all the messages that were going over the wire. Three pauses marked short intervals between the telegrams that Zach Hoyler dispatched. His task completed, the agent left the little office, closed the windows, turned out the light and came through the door of the waiting room, locking it behind him.

Hoyler’s roadster rumbled townward. The Shadow stood silent in the darkness. Then came the sound of his shuddering, whispered laugh. The Shadow had gained the key to coming crime. In one of the telegrams that Zach Hoyler had sent to New York, the master sleuth detected a summons that meant dangerous business. The move that The Shadow expected would soon be due.

LATER, The Shadow glided into the clearing by the autogiro. He opened a box in the cockpit of the ship. He lifted earphones and gained contact with Burbank. Then came the sinister tones of The Shadow’s weird whisper.

Orders to Burbank. Speaking from darkness, The Shadow gave them. The Shadow knew the goal that men of crime were seeking. He knew that the move was coming; he knew the reason why. Over the shortwave radio, The Shadow was instructing Burbank how to aid him in his plans.

For The Shadow, keen in his study of two murders, had devised a clever scheme by which he could frustrate the evil band that would soon be moving toward its long-sought goal. Through bold success, The Shadow would seek to clear the underlings; then encounter their evil chief alone.