Shadow 001 - The Living Shadow

CHAPTER XI A BAFFLING MYSTERY

HARRY VINCENT reclined comfortably once more in an armchair in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. Three days had elapsed since the thrilling episode at the house of Wang Foo, the Chinese tea merchant, and the memory of his close escape from destruction still brought chills to Vincent’s spine.

He could hardly remember what had happened after his escape to the alleyway behind Wang Foo’s domicile. He knew that he had somehow managed to stagger to the street; that the driver of the green taxi had helped him into the cab, and that he had been brought directly to the Metrolite Hotel, where he had managed to pull himself together sufficiently to reach his room.

But these were simple facts that came as recollections. As to the actual details of his return, his mind was blank.

He had visited Fellows, the insurance broker, at ten o’clock the following morning. He had said nothing of his adventures on the outskirts of Chinatown, he realized that the quiet, round-faced insurance man had probably already been informed of the facts. His conference with Fellows had been very brief.

In the quiet of the inner office, Fellows had told him to enjoy himself until further notice, but to spend his idle moments to good use: namely, to read the front pages of the newspapers, and to absorb all details of any stories that pertained to murder.

This, in itself, had been a task. For three days, one specific crime had continued to dominate the headlines of the daily journals. That was the robbery and murder which had been committed at the home of Geoffrey Laidlow, in the fashionable suburb of Holmwood, Long Island. To date, the police had found themselves checkmated.

The available facts of the case were definitely accepted. Geoffrey Laidlow had been living at home, although his family was away. It was his custom to go out nearly every evening, accompanied by his secretary. On the night of his death, he and the secretary had returned shortly before eleven o’clock.

Burgess, the secretary, had witnessed the actual murder. He explained that he and Mr. Laidlow had entered the house quietly, and had gone into the library, closing the door behind them. The millionaire had intended to sign some letters, so Burgess waited, wearing his hat, coat, and gloves, ready to take the mail to the post office.

Before signing the letters, Mr. Laidlow had searched for a book on one of the shelves, and, finding it, had scarcely opened the volume before he stopped and listened.

Some one had moved in the study across the hall, where the safe was located.

Acting on the spur of the moment, the millionaire opened the library door and rushed across the hall, There he surprised a man rifling the safe. The burglar drew a gun and shot him at close range.

The secretary had reached the hall in time to hear the pistol’s report, and to see its flash from the dark study.

He grappled with the burglar as the man emerged into the dimly lighted hall. He, too, was a victim of the murderer’s gunfire; a shot struck his arm and caused a flesh wound. Burgess had staggered for a moment; and had then followed the fleeing robber to the end of the hall, where the man had escaped through an open window.

The murderer was carrying the large box that contained the Laidlow jewels. In vaulting through the window, he had dropped his revolver, for it was found on the grass outside.

Burgess, weakened by his wound, had not followed the escaping man. Both the butler and the valet had heard the pistol shots. They had run down the stairs, half-dressed, and had arrived just after the murderer had disappeared.

A neighbor of the millionaire was Ezekiel Bingham, a celebrated criminal lawyer. Bingham had been passing the Laidlow home when the shots were fired. He had pulled his car to a stop at the first shot. Hence his testimony took up the story where the secretary had left off.

The window of the hall opened toward the street, but the house was set back among the trees. By the gleam of an arc light, the lawyer had plainly witnessed the murderer’s flight. He stated that the man had almost fallen, but had caught himself and dashed off across the lawn and through a hedge.

Bingham had observed that the man was carrying what appeared to be a box. Realizing that he could not take up the pursuit - the lawyer was an elderly man - Bingham had entered the Laidlow home.

It was he who had notified the police of the crime.

There were other witnesses: the cook, the housemaid, and the chauffeur. But their testimony was virtually without apparent value.

The police had quizzed the secretary, and found his story clear and acceptable. He had been in the employ of Geoffrey Laidlow for five years, and was a relative of the millionaire’s wife. He was Laidlow’s confidential man; he knew that the jewels were kept in the safe, but had never been given the combination. He was a man of known honesty; and Ezekiel Bingham’s statements substantiated those of Burgess.

The secretary had been treated for his wound, and was on hand when the millionaire’s family - Mrs. Laidlow and two sons - arrived at their home.

The description of the burglar indicated a man of medium height, wearing a dark suit and a black mask, who weighed between one hundred and forty and one hundred and fifty pounds. Burgess had given this information, and Bingham had coincided.

With such an excellent beginning, the police had expected many clews, particularly after the rapid flight of the murderer. But they were disappointed.

The grass on the front lawn was thick; the ground was quite dry, and not the trace of a footprint could be discovered.

There were no clews in the study. Some articles had been removed from the safe and scattered upon the floor of the room. There was nothing among the safe’s contents of great value - except the jewels, which were missing.

There were no traces of finger prints upon the dials of the safe. The mechanism was an ancient one; the burglar had opened it without resort to tools. The indications were that he was probably a fair expert in the questionable science of safe cracking.

The revolver gave no clew. It had belonged to the millionaire, and he had kept it within the safe.

The burglar had evidently found it there, and had killed Geoffrey Laidlow with the millionaire’s own weapon. The two bullets - the one that had pierced Laidlow’s brain and the one extracted from the secretary’s arm - were found to have been fired from the same pistol. There were no finger prints upon the firearm.

The fact that the millionaire’s own gun had been used in committing the murder accounted for the burglar’s readiness to part with the weapon after he had dropped it.

All this information was no more enlightening to Harry Vincent, as he read the news accounts, than it had been to the police. He was glad that he was not a police detective. He regarded the mystery as completely baffling.

Nevertheless, he read the hundreds of details that went with the murder story, including such items as the early life of Geoffrey Laidlow, the place the millionaire’s wife held in society, and numerous other facts which led him nowhere.

Harry studied the pictures of the millionaire’s estate, the newspaper diagrams of the house, the graphic drawings which illustrated the various positions of the participants, including that of the chauffeur running in from the garage at the rear.

The police were working every device and pulling every cord which might unloosen the ravel. Harry Vincent realized the importance that the police of today place upon crude, but often effective, methods.

Yet it seemed to him that a master thinker could untangle the snarl more surely. There must be some clew, some opening, which reason could discover while commonplace systems were failing. Still, a man who runs in the dark, and is fortunate enough to leave no telltale footprints, is indeed a difficult quarry.

Harry could see no purpose in studying the details of this crime. But his instructions had been definite, and he owed so much to The Shadow that it would be both unfair and unwise not to have obeyed orders.

Harry reached the point where he could picture the entire layout of the Laidlow grounds, and every salient detail of the house itself.

On the other hand, the Scanlon murder, Harry was pleased to note, had been relegated to the back pages. This was a real relief; it seemed to have been forgotten.

Harry read the few reports concerning it, and here he drew a definite conclusion. Steve Cronin was not named, but it seemed obvious that he had been recognized about the hotel, or possibly some “stool” had squealed. Knowing their man, the police were probably using the dragnet and communicating with other cities.

Harry congratulated himself that he had come in for no further questioning about the affair. Since his adventure at Wang Foo’s, it no longer seemed to him of great consequence.

Harry’s passive investigations of the facts in the Laidlow murder were occupying his mornings, for he had been instructed to remain in his hotel room until eleven o’clock every day. The whole business was like a vacation.

He had received a package containing a book of blank checks on a large Manhattan bank. Evidently deposits would be made in his name to cover any expenditures. That alone was a source of real satisfaction.

So, on this morning of the third day, he was comfortable and indolent, idly speculating what the future might bring, when the telephone’s ringing interrupted.

He lifted the receiver to recognize the voice of Fellows.

“Mr. Vincent,” came the words, “I would like to see you this morning -“

The telephone clicked. He had been cut off.

There was no emphasis in the message. Yet its meaning was obvious. Fellows himself had terminated the conversation, knowing that Vincent would realize his presence was desired at the Broadway insurance office.

Donning his hat and coat, Harry left the hotel and headed for the Grandville Building. He knew a sensation of keen interest. Somehow, idleness was becoming an annoyance. The rest after his adventure with the dangerous Chinese had been welcome, but he knew that he could never be content with enforced, continued inactivity.

He was ushered into Fellows’s private office. The chubby, deliberate man behind the desk was discoursing upon everybody’s need for insurance with his stenographer for audience. But when the girl had left the room, the insurance broker quietly changed his topic of conversation.

“You have followed my instructions?” he asked.

“Regarding the newspapers?” questioned Harry.

“Yes.”

“I’ve read about the Laidlow murder.”

“How does it impress you?”

“It is extremely confusing.”

Fellows smiled faintly.

“You would make a good police detective,” he said in his slow voice. “Those fellows are perplexed.”

“That’s a good excuse for me,” said Vincent. “I suppose I have a right to be perplexed, too.”

“I do not ask for excuses,” answered Fellows. “I merely want to know if you have done the work of reading the newspapers.”

“I have.”

“Good. Then you are ready for the next step.”

“What is that?”

“To go to Holmwood.”

“For how long?”

“Until you are recalled.”

Vincent nodded, and awaited further information.

“You will stay at Holmwood Arms,” explained Fellows. “It is not far from the Laidlow home. A room has been reserved for you there. If any one questions your occupation, give the impression that you are an author who has a moderate income from a legacy. Can you use a typewriter?”

“After a fashion.”

“Buy a portable, then. Take it with you. Use it occasionally.”

“Very well.”

“You drive a car, don’t you?”

“When I have one.”

“You will have one. A coupe is out there now. It has been delivered to the Holmwood Arms garage. It is a used car, but in excellent condition. It will give the idea that you have been driving considerably about the country.”

The prospect of his new assignment was pleasing to Harry Vincent.

“I have learned,” resumed Fellows, “that you have a New York driver’s license. That fits in well with the plans. It saves considerable annoyance, such as passing driving tests. Do you have the card with you?”

“Here it is.”

“Fine. You are a good driver?”

“Reasonably good.”

“Then you can use the car for most purposes. Come into the city with it, if you wish.”

“When shall I come into the city?”

“Only when you receive word from me. I may summon you fairly often. In your assumed capacity of a writer, it would be natural for you to come in occasionally. Always carry a briefcase, containing some typewritten sheets.”

Fellows rested his elbows on the arm of his chair locked his hands, and set his chin upon them.

“You have probably guessed the purpose of your trip to Holmwood,” he said. “During your stay there, you will learn whatever you can about the Laidlow murder. Do not act as a detective or an investigator. Simply keep your ears open for anything they may pick up. Try to see or observe any one who may know anything about it. Note any unusual activities on the part of any of those people.

“You may even mention the subject yourself if you see an opportunity of starting discussion. Ask a few questions here and there, but do it casually.

“Do not let the subject worry you. Even if you seem to be drawing blanks, keep on playing the game. Do not forget a single detail that you may discover. Each item is important although seemingly trivial to you. Hold all information in your mind. If you think you have learned something unusual, or if you have accumulated a multitude of details, report directly to me. Otherwise, wait until I call you.”

“How shall I report?” asked Harry.

“Always in person.”

“How will you communicate with me?”

“As I did to-day, if I wish to see you. Perhaps you may hear from some one else - through emphasized words.”

“I understand.”

The insurance broker studied Harry silently. Then he unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, indicating that the interview was nearing its end.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “You may receive a letter - perhaps several. They will be written in a simple code - certain letters of the alphabet substituted for others. Here is the code.” He passed a sealed envelope across the desk. “There are very few substitutions, so you can memorize them quickly. Destroy this as soon as you have learned it.”

“Shall I destroy any letters I happen to receive?”

“That will not be necessary,” smiled Fellows. “They will destroy themselves.”

The remark was puzzling to Vincent, but he thought it best to make no comment.

“Be sure the code is familiar to your mind,” advised the insurance broker. “For you must read each note quickly - immediately after taking it from the envelope. Each letter you receive will be numbered at the bottom. The first will be Number One. Keep a record of these. If any number fails to be received - if Number Six, for instance, should arrive before you have received Number Five - notify me immediately. You understand?”

“I do.”

“Any questions?”

“None.”

The round-faced man rose from his chair.

“One last word,” he said. “Conduct yourself wisely. Seek to make acquaintances. Avoid making friends.”

He extended his hand. Harry arose to depart.

Late that afternoon, Harry Vincent stepped aboard a Long Island Railroad local with a one-way ticket to Holmwood in his pocket.