The Banshee Murders

CHAPTER XIII

BLINK - BLINK - blink - blink -

The flashes were guarded tonight and their code was changed, but that didn’t worry the man who watched them. He sat with his back away from a window, so his face couldn’t be seen at all, unless the distant blinks had eyes.

Because the code was new, its signals were repeated, which was a bad mistake. It gave the watcher more time to operate a peculiar machine which whirred after he pressed certain buttons. Various letters fell in line within an illuminated dial, switched to other sets, until finally they made sense, at which time this observer stopped the process.

Leaning slightly forward, the man attended a switchboard, without letting his face come into the light. He had ear-phones on his head and when a voice responded, he announced:

“Burbank speaking -”

That name defined him. Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man who reached the active agents. To vie with crime, The Shadow had posted Burbank at this strategic spot from which the contact man could view the limits of Central Park.

Now Burbank was announcing what he had learned. His statement was concise:

“Watch Outlook Cafe - check on a man named Claude Older - watch for green coupe -”

There were other details, which Burbank relayed as they arrived, together with his crack-down of the code, as gained by means of The Shadow’s mechanical decoder. It was a neat machine, this, based on the fact that codes follow patterns and ideal for quickly breaking up simple codes once they had been changed.

As he repeated these things, Burbank was changing plugs in the switchboard, to reach various persons and inform them. There was only one that caused a brief delay; it was to the Graceland Memorial Library, which was located rather far up Fifth Avenue. Distance wasn’t what delayed it; time was needed simply because a certain Mr. Cranston had to be informed that he was wanted on the telephone.

Now The Shadow’s agents were definitely on the move. The question was how much they could accomplish even if they reached the Lookout Cafe in time to operate.

The Lookout Cafe was a most popular place. Only a short distance inside the park, it combined an old mansion with a garden to compose a fashionable eating spot. The only hazard was the weather; if bad, it crowded the patrons indoors, but that didn’t apply tonight because although the sky was overcast, there was no threat of rain.

Hence finding a man named Claude Older, particularly if you’d never met him, was something very difficult, even more difficult than locating a blue coupe among some fifty cars all parked in the darkness.

What helped was the loud-speaker which suddenly interrupted the orchestra that was playing on the garden terrace. It announced:

“Mr. Older - Mr. Claude Older - your friend is here -”

A pause followed, during which a number of diners stirred at various tables, but only because they were restless. Nobody answered to the name of Claude Older.

Again the amplifier spoke:

“A friend waiting for Mr. Older - a friend waiting outside -”

Several people were rising to step to a larger table that a waiter had prepared for them. Nobody noticed a man on the very fringe of the garden, who sidled from his chair as if to light a cigarette away from the slight breeze. He was a man with a high forehead and a baldish head that was compensated by a bristly mustache.

This man kept on sidling out between the scrubby units of a hedgerow that had been badly planted and therefore had not become the impassable affair which it had been designed to be.

If this man happened to be Older, he wasn’t expecting his friend to be waiting in a car. Across the sward from the Lookout Cafe was a hansom cab, halted just off a drive, as though to rent its horse. The man from the dining terrace moved stealthily toward the hack, though stealth was hardly necessary.

It was very dark across the greensward, even at the spot where the hansom was located. The tall vehicle showed only in silhouetted form, like a misshapen haystack. From the cafe came the final amplified announcement:

“Mr. Older, your friend is waiting outside -”

Music took over and all was as before at the Lookout Cafe, at least within the restaurant proper. Outside, however, figures were moving in from different angles and a taxicab wheeled suddenly between two gates to haul over by the parked cars.

There was a coupe waiting in front of the main building forming the cafe and there was enough light to show the bright blue paint job that embellished it. The driver was leaning out and he gave a friendly wave to a tall man whose chin was muffled in an upturned raincoat.

The tall man was coming from the cafe and he was starting to put his hat on. The bright light glistened on his bald head, showing it quite plainly. Then he was in the coupe and it was driving away.

One of the arriving figures hopped into the taxicab and it followed the blue coupe. As both vehicles crunched the gravel out between the gates, the rest of the arriving figures met to hold a conference.

There were three, all agents of The Shadow. One was Harry Vincent, ace of The Shadow’s workers; another, Clyde Burke, a reporter for the New York Classic during his off hours; the third was Hawkeye, a wizened little man who was second only to The Shadow when it came to sticking to a trail.

Only Hawkeye had no trail on which to stick. Shrevvy had followed Older, taking Cliff Marsland along in the cab. As the socko specialist of The Shadow’s staff, Cliff was a one-man crew; hence he hadn’t wasted time in gathering up any companions.

Nevertheless, that didn’t mean the rest of the agents were off duty.

“We’d better do some checking around here,” stated Harry Vincent. “What we just saw may be simply a little smoke to cover up some real fire.”

“No use going into the cafe,” added Clyde. “We’d be busy sorting out tourists until closing time. Let’s spread around here.”

“Yeah,” concluded Hawkeye, “and I’ll do any spotting while you fellows keep checking on those glims. Maybe the next bunch of code will send us places.”

All planned nicely, but it came too late.

The hansom cab was already starting along the drive, with the passenger who had stolen out from the Lookout Cafe. It couldn’t be seen at all from the corners of the main building, where The Shadow’s agents were coming into gradual evidence.

It was Phil Harley who noticed the hansom.

Why Phil should be watching a hansom, he didn’t know; in fact, why he should be where he was, happened to be an additional problem. At the moment, Phil couldn’t exactly say where he was, for he seemed to be floating through midair to the tune of horse’s hoofs.

The hansom was just ahead, which was why Phil saw it, and it helped him recognize his own status; that, plus the fact that the floating was becoming gradually familiar. It reminded Phil of last night, or rather he thought it was still last night, at the time when he had helped Arlene finish a ride in an open carriage.

Only right now it was Phil who was coming out of a daze. He turned to Arlene to explain his quandary.

“It’s very funny,” began Phil. “The last time I saw you, Arlene, you were going into a phone booth -”

“That was last night,” the girl interrupted. “Don’t you remember?”

It wasn’t Arlene’s voice and it wasn’t Arlene. Phil’s eyes opened gradually, but widely, as he fixed a slow-motion stare on Thara Lamoyne!

Those dark eyes of Thara’s gave all this an exotic setting that seemed like anywhere except Central Park, but the hoof-beats kept pounding home the fact that Central Park it was. In the passing lights, Thara’s eyes smiled, but the illusion could have come from her lips, which were ever so slightly curved.

Then, imperceptibly, the olive features became solemn.

“This Arlene you speak about,” said Thara. “A blonde, you said she was. It is so strange that she should disappear again.”

Thara’s tone was very sympathetic, although her face floated like something from a dream. That was explainable however by the fact that Thara was wearing a light velvet cape that completely draped her shoulders and had the same attractive gloss as her smooth, severe black hair.

“I guess I was the one who disappeared.” Phil rubbed his head ruefully. “I went into the phone booth. I had a call to make, but I must have been thinking about Arlene. I was looking from the booth, when suddenly she stepped out of sight -”

“Ah, I was right,” put in Thara. “She vanished, pouf! Like before.”

“Maybe she did,” admitted Phil, “but frankly I don’t remember it. Where did I find you?”

“In the lobby; of course,” replied Thara, “There at the Chateau Parkview. You said very funny things” - Thara supplied a contralto laugh - “about moonlight and a drive in the park. Of course there is no moonlight” - Thara tilted her face upward - “but it was nice to take a drive. Provided one thing” - her eyes were lowered toward Phil again - “provided that you did not mistake me for this girl Arlene.”

Phil shook his head.

“I don’t think I could have, Thara.”

“She is blonde,” said Thara, “I am brunette. Is that the reason why you could not mistake us until just a few minutes ago, because it was so very dark here?”

“There’s another reason,” Phil admitted. “I had an argument with Arlene, but so far I’ve had none with you, Thara. Maybe it makes a difference if you argue -”

An argument was due right then. Up ahead, the hansom had increased its speed and the changing pace of the horse caught Phil’s ear. Rising in the open carriage, Phil gained a chance view above some shrubs along the bend which the hansom had just taken.

“That hack!” he exclaimed. “It’s turning off the drive, the way the taxicab did last night!”

Before Thara could stop him, Phil sprang from the carriage. Thara’s hands were encumbered by a candy box which she was holding in the folds of her cape and in his haste Phil knocked the box to the floor as the girl tried to pluck his arm.

Grabbing for the box, Thara caught it before it could fall from the carriage, but lost Phil in the process. As he dashed past the bushes, Phil heard Thara call after him:

“Wait, Phil! Don’t go - not yet -”

It was good advice - if only Phil had heeded it!