Doom On The Hill

CHAPTER IV THE SHADOW LEARNS

“GRANTHAM BRECK!”

Sheriff Forey’s square jaw dropped as the official repeated the name that Harry Vincent had uttered. Until that moment, Forey had regarded Harry as the possible perpetrator of a hoax. Forey had begun to doubt the story of an unidentified body in the road. But this mention of the name of Grantham Breck produced sharp suspicion in the sheriff’s mind.

“Grantham Breck,” declared Harry, with a sober nod. “Yes, sheriff, I believe that he was the dead man.”

“So you knew Breck, eh?” challenged Forey. “Then you had a reason to be coming through here. I thought so. Say, fellow, what’s your game? Come clean.”

“I have no game,” returned Harry. “I merely want to convince you that I actually found a body at this spot where we are now standing. I want you to know that I have been keenly alert from the moment that I made my discovery until—”

“You knew Breck—”

“I did not know him.”

“Then how are you sure that he was the dead man?”

“Let me repeat my description of the body,” responded Harry. “The one that I was giving over the phone, but which you received only imperfectly. A man sixty years old, or thereabouts. Of medium height, wiry in build. Gray hair above a thin, peaked face, with eyes that were gray—”

As at the house, an interruption came at this point. Tim Forey uttered a sharp exclamation as he wheeled to the deputies. The men were nodding. They recognized the description. Forey turned back to stare steadily at Harry Vincent.

“Sounds like Breck,” asserted the sheriff. “But you’re supposed to be a stranger hereabouts. How’d you know who he was?”

“I didn’t, at the time I found the body.” Harry spoke calmly; for this was the opening he wanted. “But when I called from the house, the woman Johanna cried out while I was giving the description. Then the butler dashed into the room. I am sure that he overheard my description, although he pretended that he had not. Then I became positive that the woman was trying to cover up the excitement that she had displayed.

“I was thinking matters over before you arrived, sheriff. It’s only a half mile or so, cross lots, between here and the house. Johanna had told me that Mr. Breck was out. It gave me a hunch that there might be some connection between his absence and the murder on this road. That woman acted scared, sheriff.”

“I get you now,” growled Tim Forey, standing solemn in the glare of the searchlight. “Any fellow as keen as you ought to know what he’s talking about. Take a look around, boys,” — this was to the deputies — “and see what you can find. Maybe somebody lugged that body into the bushes.”

The deputies began their search. There was no dust on the side of the road — nothing that could have left a trace of the missing body. Nor did the deputies discover any dead form in the bushes. Two of them shifted to the hill side of the road and scrambled about on the slope.

“You’re not driving into New York tonight,” the sheriff informed Harry. “I’m keeping you here as a material witness. What’s more, I want to know something about your business. If you’ve got any credentials on you, I’d like to see them.”

Harry opened the back of the coupe. He produced a briefcase; from it, he removed papers. These were proof that he was a real estate salesman, connected with a budding building development on Long Island. The sheriff, nodding in convinced fashion, came across letters from Rutledge Mann. He also found the telegram that Harry had received in Michigan.

“Mann takes care of my investments,” explained Harry. “He is a prominent broker in New York. Moreover, he is connected with the real estate development on Long Island. I would like to telegraph him at his home, telling him that I am detained here.”

The blare of a distant locomotive whistle came as the sheriff nodded. It was the nine o’clock freight, running late. The engineer was blowing for the road crossing.

“What is more,” added Harry, “Mann can send you further proof of my identity. Of course, these letters of credit” — Harry was producing a wallet from his pocket — “can establish me for the present. If you need further information—”

“This is enough,” interrupted the sheriff. “I guess you’re all right, Vincent. But you’d better shoot that wire right away. Too bad I’ve got to keep you here, if you were supposed to be in New York tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, Mann will understand,” stated Harry.

The deputies were coming back to the road. They shook their heads as they faced the sheriff. Forey nudged his thumb toward the lower side of the road.

“Two of you fellows cut through to Breck’s place,” ordered the sheriff. “One of you drive the touring car around. Get the servants together and chin a bit with them. But don’t ask them any questions until I show up with Vincent. We’re going over to the depot in his car. Sending a wire.”

HARRY and Forey entered the coupe. Harry swung the car about at the sheriff’s order. They rolled back to the old road, then headed for the house, with the touring car following. When they reached the gloomy building, Forey ordered Harry to keep on. They came to the town road, one hundred yards past the house. Here Harry was ordered to turn right; a straight stretch followed; then Forey ordered another right turn on a road that cut over toward the railway.

“The station is about a mile from town,” explained Forey. “Midway between town and that grade crossing you came over. These roads curve around worse than snakes.”

The blare of a locomotive whistle; the sound of a slackening rattle — these were evident as Harry took a bend. The sheriff grunted.

“Inbound local,” was his comment. “Just past the grade crossing. We’ll get there with it.”

The prediction was correct. A final twist in the road brought the coupe up to a little railroad station. Simultaneously, a two-car train coasted out from among the trees. Harry saw rails glimmer in the glare of the locomotive’s headlight. He heard the ringing of the bell.

“Sit tight,” growled Forey, as Harry drew up near the station. “There’s people getting on and off. There’s Zach Hoyler, the station agent, out on the platform. We’ll wait until he goes back in.”

A few automobiles were waiting by the station. Passengers from the local entered them. The locomotive bell began in response to the conductor’s pull of the bell cord. Harry saw the station agent, a tall, stoop-shouldered fellow in shirt sleeves, as he sauntered back into the little depot. The parked cars rolled away.

“Come on,” ordered the sheriff.

WHEN Harry and Forey entered the station, they found the agent behind the ticket window. Dull eyes peered toward the visitors; then a pleasant grin appeared upon the agent’s face as the man recognized the sheriff.

“Hello, Tim,” greeted Hoyler.

“Hello, Zach,” returned Forey. “Meet Mr. Vincent. Friend of mine from New York.”

A quizzical look appeared upon Hoyler’s tired face as the fellow shook hands with the sheriff’s companion. Harry classified the agent as a typical key-pounder who served as telegraph operator as well as station master. Hoyler showed signs of long resignation.

“Vincent is sending a telegram,” remarked Forey. “Give him a blank, Zach.”

The agent complied. Harry looked at Forey and raised his eyebrows. The sheriff nodded and spoke in response to the quiet question.

“Say what you want,” he ordered. “But keep it kind of quiet. Say, Zach” — he turned to the station agent — “who went out on that local just now?”

“Only Pete Lovel and Bill Crowder,” replied the station agent. “Going down to Laporte for the evening. Came over in Scully’s old cab.”

“When are they coming back?”

“On the Union Limited. Heard them tell Scully to meet it.”

“Anybody else around here?”

“Couple of the town boys. Jeff Wheaton and a pal of his. Walked in about half past seven and bummed around. They picked up a ride, I reckon, in one of those cars that was going back to town.”

“Humph.” The sheriff looked around to make sure that no one had entered; then he turned to the agent again. “Listen, Zach, I don’t want anything said about my being over here. There’s been a little trouble and I want it kept quiet.”

“Sure thing, Tim. What’s up?”

“Vincent here found a fellow lying on the hill road. Thought the man was dead and so he called me up from Breck’s place. When we went back to the road, the man had gone.”

“Wasn’t dead after all?”

“No. But I didn’t like the looks of it, so Vincent is going to stay over at Breck’s until tomorrow. We’re going to look around some in the daytime.”

“Got old Breck kind of worried, eh?”

“Not him.” Forey laughed. “He don’t give a whoop. But I’m thinking about Ezekiel Twinton, up on the hill. He puts up a yap all the time. Scary fellow — always thinks there’s prowlers on his place. So this time I’m going to tell him I’ve been on the job. How about that telegram, Vincent? Got it ready?”

Harry nodded and passed the yellow sheet to the sheriff. Forey smiled approvingly as he read the message to Rutledge Mann.

“Detained in Chanburg,” said the sheriff, reading aloud. “Send full credentials care of Grantham Breck. Wire regarding securities.”

The sheriff thrust the telegram through the window. He grunted a good-by to the agent; then paused to add final words of admonition.

“Nobody knows I was here,” reminded Forey. “Nobody knows that wire went out. Got the idea, Zach?”

“Count on me, Tim,” responded the agent, as he placed the telegram on the table beside the telegraph key.

Harry followed Forey from the station. As they circled the little building, Harry was on the point of pausing. He was gripped momentarily by the same impression that he had gained on the hill road. He felt that eyes were watching him from somewhere outside the station. He was sure that a slight crunching sound had given him the idea.

Though the impression faded, Harry still felt uneasy as he entered the coupe. Nevertheless, he said nothing to Tim Forey. Harry felt that he had gained the sheriff’s confidence. He believed that it would be unwise to suggest anything that might make Forey return to his original doubts of Harry’s capability as a witness.

YET Harry Vincent might well have told Tim Forey of his impressions by the station. A quick investigation with flashlights would have proven that someone was near by. Two minutes after the coupe had rolled from the station, footsteps crunched upon the gravel of the driveway. A stocky, muffled figure appeared upon the lighted platform and moved stealthily toward the door. A gray-gloved hand turned the knob. A blunt, heavy-lipped countenance showed in the light of the waiting room as the intruder entered and moved softly toward the ticket window.

Zach Hoyler heard a footstep. He looked up quickly from his table and came promptly to his feet. Then he recognized the hard countenance that showed through the grille. His alarm changed to wearied annoyance.

“You again, eh?” he questioned. “Say, Nubin, if all the dicks on this line were like you, the agents would go goofy. I thought you went out of here on the afternoon express.”

“I did,” responded the hard-faced man with a grin. “But I came in on Number 42, ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah? I didn’t see you get off.”

“Nobody sees Perry Nubin when he don’t want to be seen. I dropped off on the other side of the train.”

“Kelly didn’t say anything about you being with him.”

“That dumb conductor? He didn’t know I was riding Number 42. I travel incognito, Hoyler.”

“Maybe you do,” snorted the agent. “And maybe you only rode the afternoon express down to the B and R crossing. Maybe you disguised yourself as a track-walker and hit it back along the ties.”

“Or maybe I came in on the freight, eh? Well — I didn’t do either. I rode in on Number 42, like I just told you. Say, Hoyler — what was the sheriff doing here?”

“Saying hello.”

“Yeah? And the bird with him. The guy that sent the telegram?”

“Snooping through windows, eh?” grunted Hoyler. “No wonder you got bounced off the payroll of the B and R. They hire real dicks, not snoopers.”

“Answer my question,” growled Nubin. “The guy sent a telegram. Pass it over. I want to read it.”

Hoyler hesitated; then grinned. He picked up Harry’s message and passed it through the window. Nubin read it with furrowed brow; then he glared at the agent.

“That ain’t the whole story,” remarked the railroad detective. “What’s it all about? What did the sheriff say to you?”

“He told me to keep my mouth shut,” retorted Hoyler. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Not with me,” assured Nubin, savagely. “I want the low-down. See? If I don’t get it, I’ll bust in there and do some key-pounding on my own account. Report to the divisional chief, asking him to relieve you.”

“All right,” responded Hoyler, wearily. “I guess a smart mug like you could have me fired. I’ll tell you all I know; but remember, the sheriff wants it kept mum. It’s got nothing to do with this line, anyway.”

“Spill it.”

“I DON’T know much,” admitted Hoyler. “This fellow Vincent came across a guy lying on the hill road. He reported it to Tim Forey. I suppose he made the call from old Breck’s house.”

“The lawyer who lives at the bottom of the hill? The bird that used to practice in New York?”

“Yeah. Well, anyway, Vincent must have thought the guy on the road was dead. But when he and Tim Forey went back there, they couldn’t find him. So Tim is keeping Vincent at Breck’s over night.”

“Is Breck worried?”

“Tim Forey says no. But he said Ezekiel Twinton, the old land-owner on the hill, might raise a squawk if he heard about the case. That’s why Vincent is staying here over night.”

“What else did the sheriff say?”

“Nothing. Except to ask who’d been around here when the local came in. I told him. Only townsfolk. If I’d known you came in on Number 42, I might have given you honorable mention.”

“Lay off that!” exclaimed Nubin, angrily. “Look here, Hoyler. No matter who tells you to keep mum, you talk to me. See? But when I come around you say nothing. Get that?”

“Sure. But quit sneaking in on me. I’ll go goofy if you keep it up.”

“Goofy? You mean maybe you’ll stow a bottle in that table drawer.”

Zach Hoyler set his pale lips as he stared through the window. He seemed to resent the detective’s insinuation. Nubin smiled in sneering fashion. Hoyler snapped a retort.

“Just because the last two fellows hit the booze here is no reason to suspect me,” declared the agent. “I haven’t touched a drop since I came on the trick three months ago. I figured you for a small-timer, Nubin, when I heard you had come down from the B and R to the Union Valley. But I didn’t think you were cheesy enough to spend your time trying to pin something on a little fellow like me.”

“That’s just one of my jobs,” growled the detective. “Well, don’t worry. Just keep sober, that’s all. Think I’ll move down to the crossing. Pick up the Dairy Express when she stops there.

“I might be back, though” — the dick paused warningly — “because the time a fellow would look for his bottle would be during the next few hours. It’s a long wait here, Hoyler, until those two trains come through around midnight.”

The agent smiled as indication of his sobriety. Perry Nubin passed the telegram back through the window. He stalked toward the door; then paused.

“I’m forgetting about the sheriff,” he remarked. “Anything that happens off the right of way don’t interest me. So long, Hoyler.”

When the detective had gone, Zach Hoyler took Harry Vincent’s telegram and clicked it over the wire. That job finished, the agent walked out on the platform and strolled about the station, swinging a lantern. This was an inspection duty that he performed at intervals between trains. He saw no sign of Perry Nubin during his tour.

THE telegram went through promptly. Less than an hour after the station agent had dispatched it, the wire was reaching its final destination in New York. White hands were beneath bluish lamplight in the corner of a dark-enshrouded room — The Shadow’s sanctum.

A light glimmered as a tiny spot upon the wall. The hands reached for earphones. A sinister whisper sounded in the gloom. A quiet voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Report from Mann. Wire from Vincent—”

The Shadow listened while Burbank repeated the message. The earphones clattered back to the wall. A hand wrote a note in ink of vivid blue, inserted the paper in an envelope and used another pen to address the letter to Rutledge Mann, Badger Building, New York.

The bluish light clicked out. A sinister, shuddering laugh rose to a crescendo, then shivered into ghoulish echoes. When those creepy reverberations ended, silence lay within the blackened sanctum.

The Shadow had learned the import of Harry Vincent’s relayed message. The significance lay in the expression “send full credentials.” That one word, “full,” denoted both mystery and tragedy. Unsolved crime had been reported to The Shadow by his agent.

The Shadow had departed from his sanctum. Though it was nearing midnight, the master was responding promptly to the lure of mystery. Before dawn hovered above the little town of Chanburg, The Shadow, creature of darkness, would be there.