The Condor

CHAPTER X. ON THE SLOPE

ONE hour after Cliff Marsland had observed those passing lights on the horizon, an antique taxi rolled up in front of the Paulington House. A tall passenger alighted, paid the driver and entered the hotel.

A languid clerk was perched behind the desk. Hooking one thumb under a suspender strap, he pushed the register across the desk so that the guest could sign. The name that the tall personage inscribed was Henry Arnaud.

As the lone bell boy carried the new guest’s suitcase upstairs, the clerk caught his first glimpse of the stranger’s face. He noticed a firm-set countenance, almost hawklike in its profile. Then he perched behind the desk again.

Not long afterward, the new guest came down the stairs. The clerk was half asleep and did not see him stroll across the lobby. The tall figure settled in a chair and remained there, almost obscured from view.

The Shadow had reverted to his guise of Henry Arnaud for this trip to Paulington. There had been no comeback from Clark Copley after the Walpin robbery. Evidently the Cincinnati pearl salesman had noticed no connection between Henry Arnaud’s purchases and the subsequent theft of the Blue Pearl.

Few persons were passing in the quiet street that constituted Paulington’s main thoroughfare. The Shadow, nevertheless, was watchful. At last his vigilance was rewarded by the arrival of an old touring car in front of the hotel. A bulky, beef-faced man alighted and strode into the lobby.

“Hi there, Bill!” he greeted, waving to the clerk. “Burgess Dowden been here looking for me?”

“Yeah,” returned the clerk, rising from his chair in sleepy fashion. “He was around ‘bout an hour ago, asking if I’d seen you, sheriff.”

“Where’d the burgess go from here?”

“Over to his office. Take a look out the door and you’ll see the light a-burning. Waiting for you, I reckon. Said he would be.”

The sheriff heeled about and strode to the street. The clerk watched him; then dropped back into his chair and resumed his doze. The bell hop was nowhere about; so no one saw The Shadow arise and walk out to the street.

THERE was only one visible light that could have signified the office of Burgess Dowden. That was on the second story of a three-floor edifice that was Paulington’s lone attempt at an office building.

Even in the guise of Arnaud, The Shadow was scarcely discernible as he took up the sheriff’s trail.

Reaching the building, he found the door unlocked. He ascended a pair of dingy stairs; then came to a hallway on the second floor. The lighted office was at the front. The Shadow found the door of the one next to it, opened the simple lock with a pick — a clever tool of The Shadow’s — and entered.

As he had considered probable, The Shadow found a connecting door. He went to this barrier, inserted the pick and worked with ease and care. There was a key in the lock, planted from the other side; discovering that fact, The Shadow introduced a tweezerlike instrument that proved its value.

He clipped the end of the key between the sharp-gripping points. Twisting slowly, he unlocked the door.

The one risk was that someone might observe the key turning in the other room; but The Shadow’s actions were timed to precise slowness. His work passed unobserved.

Softly, The Shadow turned the knob and opened the door a scant half inch. Looking in, he saw the beefy-faced sheriff staring across a desk toward a white-haired worthy who was evidently Burgess Dowden. The two were engrossed in conversation; neither suspected the presence of a listener.

“I’ll agree it don’t concern the town, burgess,” Sheriff Brock was saying. “That cabin was located outside the limits. It’s a county case, right enough, but seeing how the car was taken out of Cassidy’s garage, it looks like the town was in it anyhow.”

“The car is a separate matter, sheriff,” returned Dowden. “I am ready to lend you cooperation in this problem. Before I do so, however, we must settle upon the points at issue.”

“That listens reasonable, burgess. Go on with it.”

“VERY well. Last night, there was a mysterious explosion upon the hillside. In your territory, sheriff. A useless cabin was destroyed. Someone must have been responsible for the work. That admitted, what is the man’s crime?”

“Trespassing for one thing. Destroying property for another.”

“Trespassing on unposted property? Destroying a building that no one claims to own? Those are not crimes, Brock. They are not even cause for a civil damage suit.”

“Humph! Well, burgess, you’re an attorney. You know the law. Looks like I ought to let the whole thing ride. I would, maybe, if it hadn’t been for finding that car.”

“Ah, yes. The car. Purchased from Jerry Cassidy, on what he terms a lease; but paid for in full. About the only objection that can be raised concerning the automobile would be a protest on the part of the new owner because you towed it back to town and parked it in Cassidy’s garage.”

“It was abandoned on a public highway.”

“No, no. The road was abandoned, not the car. The county has dropped that stretch of road, Brock.”

The sheriff snorted as he thumped the desk. His drumming fingers told that he was at loss. The white-haired burgess chuckled. That annoyed Brock further.

“People can’t go setting off dynamite in this county!” he challenged. “Not without me finding out who did it! Some smart alec was in that flivver, burgess. I want to find him; I want to know what he was up to.”

The burgess nodded wisely.

“An excellent plan, Brock,” he stated, “and there is one course through which you might accomplish it. Think of more than the cabin. Think of the man himself.”

“I am thinking of him. That’s why I want to find him.”

“You are on the wrong tack. Go on the assumption that you cannot find him; that no one could find him.”

“Then what’s the use—”

Brock stopped short. His beefy face showed a gape. Burgess Dowden was wearing a solemn smile. His head was slowly wagging from side to side. Brock leaned across the desk.

“Say” — the sheriff’s voice was hoarse — “you don’t — you don’t mean that the man could have been in that cabin?”

Dowden’s head shake became a nod.

“Then it’s murder!” exclaimed the sheriff. “A cabin goes up in smoke. A man is missing. It’s murder!”

“Murder or suicide. Possibly manslaughter.” Dowden paused to consider. “At least, sheriff, you have cause for thorough investigation. Inasmuch as the dead man was here in Paulington that same evening, I am willing to make it a matter for the local as well as the county authorities. But only on the basis of possible homicide.”

“I get it, burgess.” Brock leaned back in his chair and laughed. “That story they wired into New York about a mystery explosion on the hillside didn’t mean much, did it? Some of the newspapers even had the name of the town spelled wrong.”

“But they will spell it correctly when I make my statement,” assured Dowden. “As burgess of Paulington, I am ready to deliver an announcement as startling as that explosion last night.

“It’s not notoriety that I want, Brock. Far from it. But I do believe that when something of consequence happens on your very doorstep, you should inform the world of it.”

“You’re right, burgess. I’ll play ball with you. Call up Boone right now. He’s sort of a local correspondent. Let him wire your statement to New York.”

“And after that?”

“We work together. Out of here. Course I’ll have to check in at Southbridge; it’s the county seat. But Paulington will be my headquarters. Any newspaper men coming out will have to check in here.”

THE door closed softly as the burgess, with the sheriff looking on, began to prepare a statement. The Shadow moved from the adjoining room. He glided down the stairs and from the building.

He had learned all the preliminary details that he required.

He knew that Harry Vincent had driven to the foot of the path up the slope and had left a purchased car at that point. These were facts that had not been mentioned in the brief newspaper items that New York journals had printed.

Mere news of a dynamited cabin had been sufficient to bring The Shadow to Paulington. Here, he had heard two men discuss additional facts. They had struck upon an agreement that a man had died in the blast.

But they had not learned the name of The Shadow’s agent. They had simply determined that Harry Vincent — to them an unknown person — would have been a victim rather than a perpetrator of the outrage.

Facts indicated it. A dynamiter would not have abandoned his car so near the point of action. The Shadow, here to learn full details of his agent’s fate, had learned enough to form a trail.

As Henry Arnaud, The Shadow returned to the Paulington House. He looked into the lobby; had the clerk been awake, he would have chosen an outside course to reach his room. But the clerk was dozing behind the desk; the bell hop was still absent. The Shadow strolled into the hotel and went up to the third floor.

That was the topmost story of the Paulington House. There was a fire escape at the end of The Shadow’s corridor. Donning black coat and slouch hat, The Shadow left his room and used the fire escape for exit.

He became a silent, gliding shape along the streets of the little town.

JERRY CASSIDY was working late tonight. As he finished cleaning the spark plugs of an automobile, he chatted with a friend who had dropped in to see him. Cassidy gestured with one thumb, over his shoulder.

“Can’t figure about that flivver,” he remarked. “The fellow who bought it wanted it right enough. But he left it on the old road. The sheriff found it and brought it home to roost.”

“Running all right, is it?” questioned the friend.

“Seems so,” replied Cassidy. “I had a duplicate ignition key, so I started the motor and ran the car over there in the corner. But I haven’t checked on anything else. Sheriff said keep it here; that’s what I’m doing.”

“Couldn’t get rid of the old load of iron, even after you’d sold it, eh, Jerry?”

“That car’s no junk. It’s plenty out of date, but it runs. The rubber is old, but good for a few thousand miles, maybe. I told the fellow that when he bought it. What I didn’t tell him was that he was getting a new battery. A new jack, too; one I took right out of stock and put in back with the tools.

“You always give a guy a good return for his money, Jerry.”

Cassidy finished up and turned out the light. He and his friend started from the garage. In the darkness, Cassidy made comment:

“You know,” he said, “that fellow who bought the flivver pulled out of here a little after seven. He’d have just about had time to drive up to the old road and follow the path to the cabin and get there ahead of the explosion.”

“The cabin was blasted just before eight,” commented the friend. “He’d have had time to do that job, Jerry.”

“Between five and ten minutes leeway,” agreed the garage man. “He had a bag when he came here. I guess the dynamite was in it.”

The two left the garage; Cassidy padlocked the swinging doors. A few minutes passed, then a tiny flashlight glimmered. The Shadow had entered unnoticed. He had heard the talk.

The flashlight shone on the roadster. Inspecting, The Shadow finished with the front and went to the rear.

He placed a gloved hand upon the spare tire as he leaned forward to open the back compartment. The rubber surface yielded under pressure. The Shadow noted that the spare was flat.

Opening the compartment, The Shadow probed the interior. His gloved hands clattered tools about, then emerged. The light, in The Shadow’s right, glimmered upon the glove that covered his left hand. Bits of clayish mud showed on the fingers of The Shadow’s glove.

The light went out. The Shadow moved through darkness. He had no trouble reaching through the space between the rickety doors. He picked Cassidy’s lock, emerged to the street and padlocked the doors behind him.

LATER, The Shadow’s flashlight glimmered in a secluded portion of the countryside. He had left Paulington. He had chosen the left fork outside of town. He had reached the stretch of abandoned road.

He was following that rocky course.

There were muddy spots between jagged stones; these were remnants of the surface that had been washed away. The Shadow’s light showed flattened marks in the mud; indications of smoothed automobile tires. Traces of Harry’s trip.

Some distance along the abandoned road, The Shadow saw where the car had veered to the right. A mud patch showed irregular marks of tires. There were footprints beside them. The Shadow resumed his course.

Fifteen minutes brought him to the path beside the birch trees. One splotch of mud showed a tire track.

The rest of the ground was rocky, giving no other traces. The Shadow followed the path up the hill.

He reached the wreckage of the cabin. There he discovered nothing of consequence. In the clearing, however, he noted leaning underbrush. Soil was dry; footprints absent; yet people had come into this open patch and left their traces.

The Shadow found the faint path toward Table Rock. Flattened underbrush proved that passers had traveled this course, probably in darkness. At one point, traces veered away and ran parallel, then swung back again.

Starlight revealed a cleared space. The Shadow had reached Table Rock. His torch blinked no longer.

The grayish glitter of the rock alone showed beneath the stars. The ground about the ledge was easily visible.

Old paths led from this point. Each one that The Shadow examined gave slight traces of recent use; but these clues were scarcely more than indications. These were too minor to be of value.

Climbing the ledge, The Shadow reached Table Rock itself. His black form became a weird, inky shape as it moved about. Keen eyes were studying the glistening stone. The upper side of the rock marked the end of The Shadow’s inspection.

There the rock extended into the hillside. There was no path leading upward; yet there were traces of loose dirt and dislodged stones that indicated prowlers taking to the higher slope. The Shadow moved back to the front of the rock.

Blackness below. Tree tops showed no reflection of the starlight. Forest all around; no sign of habitation on this portion of the slope. Mountview Lodge The Shadow knew, was around the curve to the east.

The only lights that he could see were the faint glimmers from Paulington street lamps, far beyond the trees. Motionless, The Shadow looked toward those distant dots of yellow.

Then his figure lowered. Downward from the ledge of Table Rock, The Shadow moved into the massed blackness of the woods. Table Rock glittered, its surface no longer splotched with moving, spectral darkness. The Shadow had merged with night.