Doom On The Hill

CHAPTER XXIII WEALTH RESTORED

“LET’S get it all straight,” growled Sheriff Tim Forey as he stood in the center of Elbert Breck’s living room. “There was trouble on the hill — I’ve just come from there. I figured those crooks were after the Dobbin swag and now I hear they got it. But I want to know what brought this finish.”

Four men were listening. Harry Vincent and Perry Nubin were seated side by side. Elbert Breck, relieved of bonds and gag, was resting wearily in an easy chair. Craven was standing as solemn as a crow.

“I’ll give you my story, sheriff,” volunteered Perry Nubin. “I had a reason to be working on this line — the Union Valley. They thought things were getting lax. They wanted a man to tighten them. So I was sent out to look for trouble.

“I spotted something phony. That shack by the right of way. Fellows around there looked like mobsters. When old Grantham Breck was bumped, I figured they’d done it. So I began to look around for clues. I came around this house; I went up on the hill. I figured maybe there was some hidden big shot in it.

“I never suspected Zach Hoyler. When Ezekiel Twinton was murdered, I was there on the hill. I saw the struggle; I heard the shot. I tried to follow the killer but I lost him. I had a hunch it might have been somebody from this house.

“There were thugs back at that shack tonight. I came over here to see if there was going to be any contact. I spotted someone going to the hill. It was Vincent here. I followed him and grabbed him. I’d sort of suspected he was in it; and I thought I had the right man until I found that note that he was carrying to give you. Then I lined him up on my side.”

The sheriff nodded. He turned to Harry. The Shadow’s agent spoke.

“You told me to watch things here, sheriff,” he declared, “and I did. Elbert Breck was out the night that Ezekiel Twinton was killed. I went out to look for him. I went up to the hill. I saw a struggle and saw the shot. I approached and found the body.

“Somehow, I felt that Elbert was innocent” — Harry paused; he was shaping his story to suit events — “and I feared that I might be suspected if I said I had been up by Twinton’s house. I decided to watch things here. I wanted to see if I could clear Elbert.

“I saw some suspicious characters near the station last night. I remembered your talk about the Dobbin gang and the possibility of buried swag. I had a hunch they were after it; and it seemed logical that they would ride the milk train if they got it. So I put all that in my note to you.”

“Why did you write a note?” inquired Forey, gruffly. “Why didn’t you come in to see me?”

“On account of Elbert,” explained Harry. “I wanted to put him out of the game. So you would know he was innocent. I thought I might have to send word to you, so I prepared the note in advance.”

“Go on.”

“I switched the padlocks on the smoke house. Tonight, Elbert sneaked out. I grabbed him and locked him in there. Then I had a hunch that I ought to go up toward the hill, to see if a gang was prowling there. I got as far as the road; then someone landed on me. When I woke up, I was lying in the freight car. Nubin was trying to get me into shape. He had read my note. He thought my hunch was right. He needed me to aid him.”

“All right, Vincent,” decided the sheriff. “Things worked out right, so I’ve got to give you credit. What about you, Elbert?”

“I was in Laporte, sheriff,” blurted Elbert, “before my father died. I lied to you about being in New York. That put me in a bad spot to begin with. I had a wild theory. I thought that maybe Ezekiel Twinton had killed my father. That’s why I sneaked up to the hill.

“I ran into Twinton that night and fought with him. Only so I could shake him off — that was all. Then came the shot, close by. At first, I thought Twinton had fired it himself. I headed the wrong way when I ran. I laid around for a while before I had nerve enough to come back here to the house.

“I thought that Twinton had tried to shoot me; afterward, I decided that maybe someone else had fired the shot. Then I remembered something. The shot came just as Twinton bowled me over. I believe now that Zach Hoyler tried to murder me instead of Ezekiel Twinton. He might have believed that I knew about the money on the hill.”

“You are right, Mr. Breck,” declared Craven, speaking before Tim Forey had a chance. “I knew that your father had suspicious visitors, sir. I had never glimpsed them, but I believed that they were concerned with crime.”

“When did these visitors come in?” questioned Nubin, suddenly.

“Always well after midnight, sir,” answered Craven.

“Zach Hoyler,” nodded the detective, turning to the sheriff. “It fits. He was the bird who put back the gun — and stole it from your office later.”

“I became apprehensive,” resumed Craven. “First, I wanted to protect my old master’s name. After that, I feared for young Mr. Breck. I prowled a bit myself on his account. I was out that night that Mr. Twinton was slain; but I did not venture on the hill. I looked about a bit for young Mr. Breck; then I spied a cord from his window and waited for his return.”

TIM FOREY paced back and forth. The sheriff was piecing all that he had heard. He finally paused to express his final verdict.

“Zach Hoyler fooled us,” asserted Forey. “He must have been a member of Dobbin’s outfit — one of the bunch that went through here. He came to this town and landed a railroad job. He was always trying to get located in the Chanburg station. They finally put him there after two agents went sour on the job.

“But there was somebody else in all this. I don’t know who he was; but he ought to get plenty of credit. He mopped up that mob on the hill. Got the outfit again down there by the station. Who is he? What’s become of him?”

The sheriff paused. Harry Vincent was solemn. He was anxious to know what had happened to The Shadow. In the silence that followed, there was a ring of the telephone. Forey answered it. His eyes were gleaming when he hung up.

“Got the swag!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Down by the B and R junction! Engineers on the Limited saw the engine of the milk train stalled there. They’re backing the locomotive here to Chanburg, swag and all.”

“Which means,” decided Nubin, “that somebody got Zach Hoyler. He’d never have beat it without the swag; and somebody must have stopped that locomotive by the junction.”

Harry Vincent smiled in satisfaction. All had been cleared. Missing wealth would be returned. Crooks had gained the end that they deserved. The Shadow’s agent knew his chief was safe. Moreover, he had a sudden hunch regarding The Shadow’s whereabouts. Harry was thinking of the Limited.

THE guess was correct. On the fast train, speeding into New York, a passenger was lying in the lower berth of a compartment. His face — a trifle pale — was that of Lamont Cranston. This passenger had presumably boarded the train at Torrington, the last stop of the Limited before the Union Valley junction. But he had not encountered the conductor until after the train had pulled away from the junction.

Resting on his right side, The Shadow smiled. He was thinking of what was going on in Chanburg; of the explanations that would be made; of the one mystery that Sheriff Tim Forey would not clear. Later, The Shadow would return to Chanburg, to reclaim his autogiro and lift it from the clearing at night.

Then came thoughts of Zach Hoyler, the hidden crook who had managed crime. The Shadow had recollections of one night outside the station; to his throbbing brain came the ticks of the telegraph key.

Zach Hoyler was sending telegrams. Pauses between the wires — three pauses that The Shadow could remember. Zach Hoyler had been given only three telegrams. One from Harry Vincent, one from Perry Nubin, one from Elbert Breck. Three telegrams, yet three pauses. Why? Because The Shadow had heard four telegrams that night.

The fourth had been Zach Hoyler’s own. A wire to a blind in New York. Signed with a fictitious name. The summons to the gang. The Shadow remembered more. A note on Hoyler’s table, left there after the arrival of the box of Lugers. The Shadow had read it. So had Spike Balgo. The mobleader had taken the note with him. It had ordered him to steal the box and return it; to keep the Lugers if they proved to be its contents.

Throbbing thoughts, the aftermath of a titanic struggle. The fight on the hill, the battle at the station, the grim conflict in the cab of the thundering locomotive. A soft laugh whispered from The Shadow’s lips. It died within the confines of the compartment.

The Limited plunged onward. Its whistle blared through the silent countryside. Its shrill blasts were unheard by the passenger in the compartment. Wearied at last, The Shadow was asleep.