Mox

CHAPTER VII TRAILS CONVERGE

LAMONT CRANSTON was standing in the lobby of the Cobalt Club. A cigarette between his thin lips, the millionaire seemed lackadaisical. Actually, he was keenly alert. Behind this complacent exterior of languor lay the intuition of The Shadow.

This was the second night since Peter Greerson had disappeared. During the intervening period, the tall figure of Lamont Cranston had been seen but occasionally within the Cobalt Club. There was a reason; during both evenings, The Shadow had been conducting investigations of his own.

Garbed in obscuring garments of black, he had revisited the room where Schuyler Harlow had died, the apartment where the man had lived before, and the rooms which Peter Greerson had occupied on Seventy-ninth Street. Despite the thoroughness of his examinations, The Shadow had gained no clew to Mox, the man whom he sought.

Harlew — or some enemy of the dead man — had destroyed all traces. Greerson had left nothing by which he could be tracked. For once, The Shadow had struck a blind trail.

Meanwhile, however, his agents had not been idle. Performing the routines imposed upon them by their hidden chief, they had been sending in reports through Mann and Burbank. So far, nothing of value had been learned through their efforts.

Lamont Cranston, at his location in the lobby, could watch the clock as well as the telephone booths. The hands of the clock were nearing eleven. If this were to be a night for murder, the odds now lay with Mox. Yet Cranston never moved. When he affected the calm demeanor of the millionaire, The Shadow always played the part, no matter how crucial the time might be.

A ring sounded from the phone booth. Cranston stepped in that direction. His calm voice answered the telephone. His tones were recognized. Across the wire came the statement:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Report from Burke. Has just learned of another inventor. Joel Neswick. Phone Gotham 5 — 6424. Specialist in television apparatus.”

“Report received.”

Hanging up the receiver, Cranston called the number which Burbank had given him. It proved to be a small hotel, as evidenced by the clerk’s voice.

“I should like to speak to Mr. Joel Neswick,” announced Lamont Cranston.

“Sorry, sir,” came the abrupt reply. “Mr. Neswick checked out at half past ten this evening.”

“His forwarding address?” was the question in Cranston’s tones.

“He left none,” answered the clerk. “He did not say where he was going. He has probably gone out of town.”

The eyes of The Shadow peered from the phone booth. They flashed as they saw the clock, with its hands indicating eleven.

Burke’s discovery of Neswick had been made too late. There was no doubt of where this inventor had gone. The very fact that he had left his hotel at half past ten was a duplication of Peter Greerson’s action.

NESWICK, like the inventor before him, had started along the one-way path that led to Mox. Another victim was placing himself within the monster’s power.

At the stroke of twelve, Neswick, like Greerson, would die!

Two nights before, The Shadow had been unable to thwart the evil deed of Mox, the fiend. Tonight, the situation was duplicated. One hour to go; then oblivion for the man who was entering the enemy’s lair.

Investigation at the hotel which Neswick had left would give The Shadow no opportunity to save the doomed inventor’s life. The Shadow had merely gained the satisfaction of knowing that his deductions were correct.

The telephone rang as Cranston was rising to leave the booth. The millionaire answered it. The eyes of The Shadow were burning orbs as his ears recognized the voice of Burbank.

“Report from Vincent,” came the methodical words.

“Report!” whispered The Shadow.

“Vincent arrived in Darport, after leaving Solswood. Has learned of a man named Jarvis Moxton, living in an old house on the outskirts of Darport. Vincent awaits instructions.”

“Orders to Vincent.” The Shadow’s voice showed triumph. “Meet night train at Darport station. Intercept Joel Neswick, unless he receives further instructions.”

“Orders received,” came Burbank’s reply.

Lamont Cranston stepped from the telephone booth. He crossed the lobby of the Cobalt Club. He appeared upon the sidewalk outside. He stepped into his limousine.

“Garage, Stanley,” he ordered his chauffeur. “I intend to drive my speedster home tonight.”

SIX minutes later, Lamont Cranston was seated at the wheel of a huge, expensive car that loomed with unusual bulk. The hood of the low-slung car was of great length. This automobile was built for speed.

Beside him, on the seat, the driver had a bag which he had brought from the limousine. As the speedster rolled out into the street, a hand opened the bag and drew forth garments of black. A few moments later, the body of the driver was obscured beneath a blanketing cloak of black; his features were hidden by the broad brim of a slouch hat.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!

The train which The Shadow now knew Neswick must have taken was due at Darport at eleven forty. It would require twenty minutes before the speedster could reach the open road; even this depended upon the fact that the garage was located at an ideal spot for quick leave-taking from Manhattan.

After that came nearly twenty miles of open road. With these odds, the chances of The Shadow’s arrival before Neswick reached Darport were virtually nil. Harry Vincent was dependable, but in a desperate situation, no man could compare with The Shadow.

The clock on the speedster’s dashboard showed twenty-seven minutes past eleven as the big car reached the spot The Shadow wanted — the clear road ahead. The motor roared as the accelerator was pressed. Like a jagannath, the huge machine showed its power.

The speedometer showed the speed at ninety miles an hour. Onward roared the car, its motor tuned to greater swiftness. As it veered left to pass an automobile going in the same direction, another car, coming from the fringe of a slight curve in the road, blocked the path head on.

Even with its present speed, the speedster seemed to take a jolting leap ahead as it clipped in between the two cars to avoid collision. The speedometer pointer passed the hundred mark as The Shadow performed this daring maneuver.

The big car swerved with the slight curve; the firm hands at the wheel held it to its course. With speed hovering between ninety and one hundred, The Shadow swept onward.

A shrill whistle sounded. The Shadow laughed tauntingly as the noise came from behind. State police were trying to stop the massive car. They had begun a chase. Even a swift motor cycle was no match for The Shadow’s speed.

The big car dropped to seventy-five as it took a curve, then the higher speed was resumed. The speedster swept past three cars in a row. Clicking miles were matched by furious minutes. The clock marked the time at twenty-two minutes before twelve.

Darport was but a few miles ahead, the train was due there in two minutes. As The Shadow swung the huge car to a stretch of road that paralleled the railway, a strident laugh came from his hidden lips.

The rear lights of the evening train were showing less than a quarter of a mile ahead! The train was running late by at least three minutes!

With this opportunity present, The Shadow did not hesitate. The speedometer pointer passed the hundred-mile mark. The speedster whirled past the moving train at double the locomotive’s pace!

A curve one hundred yards ahead was revealed by the powerful searchlight mounted on the speedster. The road veered to the right; a railway crossing sign was in view.

Without a single glance to the rear, The Shadow applied the brakes. The speedster slackened for the sharp turn. With calm precision, The Shadow swung the wheel as the car reached the low speed of twenty miles an hour. A shrill whistle sounded from the right. The train was approaching.

UP went the front wheels on the grade crossing. From the right came the gleaming headlight of the locomotive. It was bearing down upon the speedster at a rate of fifty miles an hour. The automobile seemed doomed, as it struck the nearer track at the crossing. Then, as it was fairly on the cross-over, it shot forward as The Shadow gave it speed.

The car leaped from the locomotive’s path. It twisted to the left, taking another sharp turn. The locomotive missed its rear by a scant two feet.

The train thundered by, the engineer staring with bulging eyes. He expected to see the fortunate driver bring his car to a stop; instead, the speedster increased its speed and traveled onward.

It burst ahead of the locomotive. Its tail lights disappeared behind a clump of trees, just as the engineer began to slacken speed for the Darport station.

With dim lights only, the speedster cut down a side road that brought it to the depot in advance of the train. Even those lights were extinguished before the swift car came to a stop. Silently, The Shadow dropped from the side of his machine.

The approaching glare of the locomotive showed a man standing beside a parked sedan, awaiting the train’s arrival. The same light revealed another, not far from where The Shadow’s car was located. As the glare ended, The Shadow approached the second man, whom he had recognized as his agent, Harry Vincent.

Above the din and rattle of the stopping train, Harry heard The Shadow’s whisper as it came from the sinister darkness. He nodded as he obeyed an order, turning toward the direction of The Shadow’s speedster.

“Report,” came a whisper.

“Moxton’s car,” replied Harry, in an undertone. “Meeting the train—”

Steps were opening. A man — evidently Neswick — was descending from a coach.

“Report received,” whispered The Shadow, still lost in darkness. “Take speedster. Follow instructions.”

Harry climbed into the huge car. He waited. Watching, he saw the man by the sedan approaching Neswick as the train began to chug from the station. Something fluttered in Harry’s lap. He clutched a folded piece of paper in his hand.

The lights of the sedan came on. The car started from its parking place. As it swung out toward the street, Harry Vincent stared. The rear light had twinkled twice. Something had momentarily obscured its glow.

As the sedan disappeared, Harry opened the note and read the hasty coded words which The Shadow had inscribed.

Harry turned on the lights. He started the motor, and shot the big car to the road alongside the railway. He reached the crossing, but kept straight ahead. As he rolled down a side road amid trees, he heard the rattling chug of motor cycles.

The Shadow had far outdistanced the police. They would be on his trail, however, looking for the huge speedster in Darport or beyond. Harry’s own car was near the Darport station. That did not matter. He knew The Shadow could find it if he needed it. Otherwise, Harry could return and get the coupe on the morrow.

As he drove along, however, Harry was wishing that he could have remained in Darport. Once he had located Jarvis Moxton’s house, by cautious inquiry, he had been positive that it must be the place The Shadow sought.

The Shadow, however, had gone to face danger alone. Harry knew the reason for the blinking of the tail light on Moxton’s sedan. The Shadow, riding on back of that vehicle, was going as extra passenger, to witness the interview that would take place between the owner of the old house and the visitor who had come by train from New York.

Harry Vincent knew nothing of the details. In his duty as an agent of The Shadow, he took orders and followed them. He wasted no time in idle speculation. Nevertheless, his common sense told him that The Shadow’s errand tonight must be one that involved great danger.

In this surmise, Harry Vincent was correct. Jarvis Moxton, who called himself Mox, was a man who dealt in murder to gain his wealth.

The Shadow, like Joel Neswick, was going into the monster’s lair, there to foil the death that had been set for the hour of midnight!

Trails had converged. The path of Joel Neswick, prospective victim, had been crossed by that of The Shadow, master of vengeance. Both would join within the weird house where Mox, the slayer, held his evil abode!