Mox

CHAPTER XV THE TEST

MORNING found Detective Joe Cardona at the county jail. The New York sleuth was anxious to witness the arrival of Hoyt Wyngarth from Albany.

The event took place shortly before noon.

An automobile pulled up in front of the jail. Two men alighted from the front, three from the rear, of the sedan. Hoyt Wyngarth, handcuffed between two captors, was led into the prison. Cardona watched the man go by.

Wyngarth, tall, stoop-shouldered, and cadaverous, looked pale and miserable. He was conducted to a cell. Cardona talked with the men who had brought him. Three were from Albany; the fourth, who had driven the car, was one of Tharbel’s assistant detectives.

“He won’t talk,” affirmed one of the Albany sleuths. “We’ve got plenty on him, though. He’s been suspected of blackmail a couple of times. A bad egg, this bird Wyngarth, and a smooth one.”

“He doesn’t look so smooth,” remarked Joe.

“He’s scared — that’s why,” rejoined the dick from Albany. “I guess he knows the clamps are on him.”

Tharbel’s assistant was calling Harman’s hunting lodge. He announced, when he had completed his telephone conversation, that Junius Tharbel would arrive at the jail within a short time.

“He wants you to be here,” the man told Cardona, “and he said to bring a fellow named Challick. I’m calling the inn to get Scudder and Neswick.”

“Challick is with them.”

“All right. I’ll get the three over.” The trio arrived; with Cardona, they waited in the gloomy hallway just within the door of the jail. Tharbel showed up not long afterward. Accompanied by his hunting companions, Hollis Harman and Wade Hosth, he stalked into the hallway.

Reporters, too, were on the job. They strolled into the place in Tharbel’s wake. The county detective raised no objection to their presence. With a curt nod to Cardona and the others, Tharbel walked through the hallway and opened the door of a side room.

“Come in here,” he ordered.

EVERY one obeyed. They found a room which had evidently been disused. It was separated, by a glass-framed partition, from a smaller room beyond it. All the windows had bars; there was a connecting door between the two.

“This layout,” declared Tharbel, “was supposed to be my office. One of the county prosecutors rigged it up after the addition had been built to the jail. I was supposed to sit in there” — he pointed to the other room as he spoke — “and have my assistants out here. I tried it, barred windows and all, and then I moved back to my old offices. The prosecutor was sore, but we’ve had a new one since then.”

Tharbel was unusually loquacious. It was seldom that he spoke at such lengths. He paused to smile sourly as he came to the point of his remarks.

“I’ve been figuring for a long while what I could do with these vacant rooms,” he said. “At last, I’ve found a use for them. Pull down those shades, Scudder. I’m going to make a dark room out of this one.”

Scudder obeyed. The darkening of the room produced a gloom that was lightened only by the illumination which came through the clear glass partition.

“Line up along the partition, all of you,” ordered Tharbel. “Keep back far enough so your faces won’t show from the other side.”

The crowd followed instructions. Cardona took a position beside Challick and Neswick. Tharbel’s hunting companions were next; on the other side of the door were Burke and the reporters who had come with him.

Tharbel opened the door in the partition, and went into the next room. He looked at the faces along the glass. He called out for the reporters to move back a bit. Satisfied, he put his head through the door and spoke:

“I’m going to quiz Hoyt Wyngarth. I’ll leave the door open a little way, so you can hear as well as see. No noise. Understand? I’m coming in here later, and leave Wyngarth alone. No noise then, either.”

Speaking in an undertone to Scudder, Tharbel gave new instructions. The assistant went out. Tharbel returned to the lighted office. As he promised, he left the door a trifle ajar. Tharbel seated himself in a chair.

The watchers saw a door open on the other side of the lighted room. Hoyt Wyngarth, relieved from his handcuffs, entered. The county detective invited him to sit down. The grilling was to begin.

JOE CARDONA, watching and listening, again felt admiration as well as disapproval for Tharbel’s methods. There was no challenge of the third degree in the county detective’s manner. Tharbel was calm, almost friendly toward Wyngarth. At the same time, he was enigmatic; his hatchet-face showed no expression.

“What’s your name?” questioned Tharbel quietly.

“Hoyt Wyngarth,” blurted the pale-faced man.

“You live in Albany, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been in Darport before?”

“No.”

Wyngarth’s face, twitching, became suddenly tense as the prisoner made the final reply.

“That’s odd,” decided Tharbel. “I thought that maybe you knew something about a man who used to live in Darport. He called himself Mox — short for Moxton — Jarvis Moxton.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Mox was the man’s assumed name. Mox might be any one. For instance” — Tharbel paused to smile for the first time — “I, myself, might be Mox. You might be Mox. The man, as he was known here, was a masquerader. Gray hair — gray beard — all probably false.”

Wyngarth winced. His face, however, became suddenly firm after that. He seemed quite determined to say nothing.

“Do you want to answer questions?” queried Tharbel. “Or do you prefer to make a statement?”

“Neither,” replied Wyngarth. “I have nothing to say. Nothing.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes.”

Tharbel arose and strolled about the room. He started toward the far door, and paused to open the wrapper of a stick of chewing gum. As he used his right hand to place the gum in his mouth, he placed his left upon the knob and gave it a slight turn. Then, as an afterthought, he walked straight across the room and opened the door to the front room, where the hidden watchers were located.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, as he went through. He closed the door until only a crack remained. He joined those who were at the partition.

Hoyt Wyngarth, alone, stared solemnly toward the door by which Tharbel had left. He looked about in a furtive manner, noted the barred windows. He again faced the door between the two rooms.

The watchers, looking beyond, saw the farther door open. A big-fisted jailer stooped and shoved a dog into the room. Stepping back, he pulled the door shut.

THE growl of the dog, the slam of the door; both attracted Wyngarth’s attention. Turning, the prisoner — like the watchers — saw the brown-spotted Dalmatian that had been captured in Mox’s upstairs living room.

Wyngarth gasped. The dog, still growling, stared at the man. Then, with sudden recognition, the Dalmatian sprang toward Hoyt Wyngarth. Its growl turned to a yelp of joy.

As Wyngarth backed away, the dog leaped and pressed its paws against his body. With wagging tail, it looked to Wyngarth as any hound would welcome a long-lost master.

Wyngarth’s reactions were a medley. For a moment, he forgot himself. Though backing away, he began to stroke the head of his canine friend.

Then, with anger, he thrust the dog away, and sprang toward the door in the partition.

“Take the dog away!” he screamed. “Take it away! I’m afraid of it!” Tharbel shut the door tight and held the knob. Wyngarth, the dog bounding after him, dashed across the room toward the farther door. As he fumbled with the knob, the Dalmatian, with tail wagging furiously, again showed its recognition.

The door opened. The beefy jailer pushed Wyngarth aside. As Tharbel, calling from the partition, gave him an order, the jailer grabbed the dog and pulled it from the room. The dog snarled at the jailer.

Wyngarth had collapsed in a chair. He looked up to see Junius Tharbel facing him. The county detective had entered the room after the removal of the dog.

“It looks like the hound knew you,” he remarked.

“I never saw the dog before,” whined Wyngarth.

“The dog knew you,” reminded Tharbel. “He took to you, and no one else.” Wyngarth was silent.

“The dog,” added Tharbel, “belonged to Mox.”

Wyngarth clenched his fists; and cowered in his chair. His eyes were wild as they stared toward Tharbel.

“I’ve got nothing to say!” shrieked the prisoner. “Nothing! Nothing!”

“Very well.” Tharbel seemed indifferent. “We’ll keep you as our guest for a while, and see how you enjoy it.”

The county detective called for Scudder. The assistant arrived. Tharbel ordered him to take Wyngarth back to a cell. The prisoner became defiant as he was being led from the room.

“I’ll never talk!” he cried.

“No?” questioned Tharbel. “Well, we’ll find out about that. Remember, Wyngarth, any time that you are ready to make a statement, you can do so. Simply, ask to be brought to me. I’ll be glad to see you.”

There was a quiet impressiveness about Tharbel’s statement. The words had their effect upon Wyngarth. The tall man’s stooped shoulders seemed to sag as the men swung him through the hallway. Tharbel beckoned to the men who had been patiently standing beyond the door.

“That’s that,” he said, as the crowd entered the room which contained daylight. “I’ve landed the man I want. When Hoyt Wyngarth confesses, we’ll know all there is to know about Mox.”

“Aren’t you going to grill him?” demanded Joe Cardona.

“I have completed my examination of the prisoner,” returned Tharbel. “When he talks, it will be of his own volition. He will send for me.”

Turning about, Tharbel spied his fat-faced friend Hollis Harman and the hunter’s companion, Wade Hosth. He beckoned to the pair.

“Let’s get started,” he suggested. “We’ll go back and do some shooting. Scudder” — this to the assistant who had just returned — “when Wyngarth wants to talk, send for me. I’ll be staying out at the lodge.”

JOE CARDONA stood rooted for a full minute after Junius Tharbel had departed with his friends. When the detective turned about, he found himself with a trio consisting of Cuthbert Challick, Joel Neswick, and Scudder. The reporters had followed after Junius Tharbel.

“This beats me,” growled Joe. “Tharbel gets the goods on a guy, then won’t try to make him talk.”

“That’s his way,” interposed Scudder. “I’ve seen him try it before. I guess he figures that the prisoner will worry himself until he weakens.”

“Well,” remarked Neswick, with a smile, “that keeps me over at the inn for a while longer. I can’t say that I mind it. Let’s go over and have lunch, Scudder.”

The two men went out. Joe Cardona was alone with Cuthbert Challick. The detective turned to the tall inventor.

“There’s no reason why you’ve got to stay,” remarked Joe. “You’ve made your statement. You’re not a material witness. I’m going to stay out here until Hoyt Wyngarth talks. If you’ll let me know where you will be in New York—”

“I think I shall remain here,” interposed Challick. “This case is becoming very interesting. Tharbel’s dog test was good — so far as it went. Yes, I shall stay in Darport for a few days at least. Suppose we go over and join Neswick at lunch.”

“I’ll be along in a few minutes,” said Cardona, as they walked from the room. “I want to talk with these fellows who brought Wyngarth in from Albany.”

Outside the jail, Cardona found the men he wanted. He saw Challick’s tall form strolling toward the inn as he talked with the Albany detectives. As Challick disappeared from view, something that an Albany man said aroused Cardona from his lethargy.

“Tharbel is smart,” was the comment. “He grabs Wyngarth. The dog knows the guy. You can’t beat that. I’d like to see somebody else pull one as smooth as that.”

Cardona thrust his hands in his pocket. He stalked away. Growling as he walked toward the inn, he expressed his antagonism toward Junius Tharbel.

“Thought he was smart,” grunted Joe. “Found Neswick. I trumped that when I found Challick. He’s overplayed me now — with that note naming Wyngarth. The dog knows Wyngarth, all right.

“Say” — Cardona stopped short, and his lips moved as he spoke to himself, half aloud — “if I could get a break like that! Find a guy that the dog would recognize! That would make Tharbel look cheap!”

Something crinkled as Cardona clenched his fist within his pocket. Wondering, the detective brought out a crumpled sheet of paper. His eyes bulged as he read the scrawl that ended with the signed letter “S.”

Cardona, like Tharbel, had gained possession of a mysterious note. Like the message which Cardona had seen on Tharbel’s desk, this one began with the words: “You want Mox—”

But instead of Hoyt Wyngarth, in Albany, it named Irving Salbrook, in New York!

A grim smile spread over Cardona’s features. The sleuth saw the opportunity.

The letter “S.” Who it meant, Cardona did not know. But he held a lurking thought that the letter had a double meaning now. To Cardona, “S” signified The Shadow!

He was sure that the mysterious stranger who moved by stealth had thrust his amazing hand into the affairs that surrounded the affairs of Mox, the superfiend.

When he reached the inn, Cardona went to a telephone before he joined the others at lunch. He called New York detective headquarters, and talked with Inspector Timothy Klein. All arrangements were made to snag Irving Salbrook, if he could be located in New York.

Junius Tharbel had applied the test on Hoyt Wyngarth. Joe Cardona had a hunch that he, too, would have occasion to soon apply the same test on another prisoner.