The Condor

CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW’S JOURNEY

IT was four o’clock the next afternoon. Half a dozen men were seated upon Table Rock, chatting while they smoked their pipes. Their conversation dealt with developments in Paulington.

“Like as not, the fellow was blowed up in that cabin,” remarked a big, unshaven chap whose voice carried a rustic twang. “Figuring that, I can’t see no reason for us tramping all along the slope.”

“‘Tain’t the dead man we’re looking for, Hank,” observed a comrade. “The sheriff wants to find out who set off them fireworks.”

“Hadn’t he figured that the city chap could ha’ done it for himself?”

“What’s become of him then?”

“Maybe he was blowed up with it. Say — when’s the sheriff due here?”

“He’s coming now, Hank.”

As the words were spoken, Sheriff Brock appeared from the cabin path. With him were three strangers.

One of the men on the rock whispered to a pal:

“Reporters — up from New York.”

“Any luck, men?” queried the sheriff.

“Nothing much, Howie,” responded Hank, as spokesman. “Luther, here, found what looked like a campfire further up the hill; but it didn’t strike me as meaning nothing.”

“Built recently, was it?”

“Didn’t look that way. I’d have said them logs have been lying there well nigh on to a month.”

“No use looking at it then.”

The sheriff waved for searchers to come down from the rock. They had been searching the terrain individually; Table Rock was their meeting place. Obviously, Brock was going back to town, and the members of his party were glad to do the same.

TEN minutes after the searchers had left the ledge, a figure appeared silently from a lower path. It was The Shadow, in the guise of Henry Arnaud. Up here on the slope, he had found little difficulty in avoiding the spreadout searchers.

Skirting the ledge, The Shadow cut in to the spot that he had examined on the night before, where loose stones had marked progress up the slope. Tracing through scrub, he reached a tiny clearing. There, under the shelter of a dwarfed pine tree, he found the fire that Luther had reported.

Blackened logs were all that remained above gray ashes. But The Shadow, pressing logs aside, found something that brought a soft laugh from his lips. It was the stump of a hand-fashioned cigarette.

To The Shadow’s observation, this fire was of fairly recent building. Chunks from the small logs indicated that someone had been careful to thoroughly extinguish it. That was why Hank had decided the fire was a month old. The Shadow’s estimate limited its age to a week or less.

This tiny clearing was well hidden. A fire, burning here, could not have been seen from the ledge below.

It seemed likely that the person who had built the fire had come up from Table Rock. The Shadow’s task was to find any other direction that the unknown man might have taken.

There was no path from the clearing. Hence there were two indications, among pressed bushes, that showed the camper’s course. One was down to Table Rock. The other, toward the rise of the hill.

Choosing this course, The Shadow began a trail. A dozen yards along, he made a discovery: another cigarette stump trampled on the ground. Like the first, it was handmade. It had been carefully extinguished.

The trail continued. It bore west, skirting the slope. At one spot, broken branches of trees showed a course through blocking boughs. Another wisp of cigarette paper furnished an additional clue.

These traces were not obvious. Only The Shadow, looking for them, could have discovered the path that a prowler had taken. With the skill of a woodsman, he kept to his task, picking new indications that the sheriff’s blunderers had utterly failed to notice.

An hour’s journey brought him beyond the hill. There the trail veered; then was lost at an opening among the trees. The Shadow, however, noted a tiny knoll that might have been an objective. He made in that direction. From the eminence, he gained a view to the north.

A stream curved past the borders of the slope. A farmhouse stood beyond it; but on the stream itself, half a mile west of the farm, was a dark brown building that looked like an old mill.

A poor road showed among trees still further west. It offered means of travel between the mill and the good dirt road that skirted the west side of the slope. The Shadow chose that road as his next point.

DESCENDING the slope, The Shadow suddenly came upon new traces of the same trail that he had taken from the clearing above Table Rock. Evidently the stroller on the hillside had cut down to the road in the same fashion as had The Shadow.

A cigarette butt was the clue that proved this fact. Reaching the road, The Shadow discovered footprints in thick dust. A toe pointed right, that was toward the mill.

The Shadow followed the trail no further. Keeping to the side of the road, he headed left. A westward walk of more than a mile brought him to the good dirt highway. He followed it until he came to the upper end of the old abandoned road on which Harry Vincent had left the flivver. The Shadow took to the abandoned road.

A coupe was parked beside the birch trees when The Shadow arrived at that spot. A man was standing beside it, looking up the path. The Shadow approached and scuffed a stone as he advanced. The man spun about to show a face that was keen and alert.

He was Clyde Burke, reporter from the New York Classic. Wiry built, active of manner, Clyde started tensely as he awaited the arrival of the walker. He said nothing as he studied the immobile features of Henry Arnaud.

The Shadow raised his left hand. On the third finger, Clyde spied a gem that glittered despite the shade of the trees above. The stone was a fire opal, a glimmering, living coal of varied hue; The Shadow’s girasol.

“They’ve all gone back to town,” stated Clyde, solemnly. “I told the sheriff I wanted to poke around here a while. The other reporters went into Paulington. I’m to meet them at the office of Burgess Dowden.”

A slow nod was The Shadow’s response. In the steady manner of Henry Arnaud, he entered the car and took the wheel. Clyde joined him.

“Remain at the Paulington House,” ordered The Shadow, in Arnaud’s steady tone. “Await instructions; and have reports available. I shall require this car.”

“All right,” agreed Clyde. “The sheriff found nothing up on the slope. It looks like there’d been people around there, all right, but none of them left enough traces to count.”

“Did he discover anything at the cabin?”

“Nothing. But he says — and it sounds likely, too — that whoever blew the place up could have gone around and picked up any traces of — of—”

“Of the man who died there.”

Clyde had hesitated, choked as he sought to utter the name of Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s response, in level, solemn voice, had completed the sentence for him.

Clyde nodded. He appreciated the fact that The Shadow had spoken without mentioning Harry’s name.

To Clyde, the tragedy was as great as it had been to Cliff Marsland.

The Shadow was driving toward the fork and Clyde studied his masklike countenance as they jounced from the bad road. In the features of Henry Arnaud, he saw an inflexible, unyielding expression.

Grim fervor seized Clyde Burke. Like Cliff, he had vowed vengeance upon murderers. In The Shadow’s firm countenance, despite the fact that it was but a temporary guise, Clyde saw a determination that he knew must concern the future.

Clyde recalled the vengeance that The Shadow had wreaked upon slayers who had killed an agent long ago. He knew that this just being would always exact toll from men of evil. But the past could not vanish from Clyde’s memory.

Harry Vincent was dead. That tragic thought gripped Clyde as it had held Cliff. With effort, Clyde managed to regain his calmness. The Shadow’s example had told him that he must face the future.

NO comment came from the lips of Henry Arnaud as the car rolled toward Paulington. It was not until they had reached the very outskirts of the village that The Shadow stopped.

It was Clyde’s signal to leave. The agent clambered from the coupe. The Shadow drove off along a side street while Clyde started afoot toward Dowden’s office.

The Shadow did not travel far, however. He skirted the town, came in by a side road and parked the coupe in back of the Paulington House. It was time for the evening train. The Shadow strolled leisurely toward the station platform.

The local chugged into view; three passengers stepped from it. Standing away, The Shadow surveyed them; suddenly his eyes became fixed upon a passenger of husky build whose keen eyes stared from a swarthy countenance.

The Shadow knew that stranger, with his firm jaw and short-clipped mustache. But The Shadow had not expected to see him in Paulington. The arrival was Vic Marquette, operative for the United States secret service.

Vic was looking about, anxious to make some query. He saw the station agent and approached the man.

The Shadow, strolling close, heard Marquette inquire the way to Burgess Dowden’s office. The station agent pointed to the building down the street.

The Shadow watched Marquette walk away. He waited; the operative entered the office building. Ten minutes passed; then three reporters — Burke included — came strolling out to the sidewalk. The Shadow laughed softly.

Marquette had evidently introduced himself to sheriff and burgess. The result was a private conference.

The Shadow, however, was in no haste to learn the details. He strolled over to the Paulington House.

The clerk was reading a newspaper that had just arrived. Paulington was in the news. Last night’s flash over the press wires had added grim importance to the mystery explosion on the hillside.

That was why reporters had come here today; it was also why the clerk stared suspiciously at the features of Henry Arnaud as The Shadow strolled upstairs. Strangers who failed to state their business were being watched in Paulington. The clerk had already told the burgess that Henry Arnaud had checked in at the Paulington House after the hill explosion.

Clouded sky; gloomy dusk. Blackness was thickening outside The Shadow’s window. Half an hour had passed since Marquette had entered the office building. The Shadow was seated at a table, about to seal an envelope. Suddenly he became alert.

His keen ears had caught the sound of footsteps. People were coming up the stairs to the third floor of the hotel. Voices, though muffled, were carrying along the corridor of the old hotel; they could be heard through The Shadow’s open transom.

Instantly, The Shadow extinguished the table lamp. Something swished; he was plucking cloak and hat from an opened suitcase. The black garments donned, he produced a coil of rope from the bag; then clicked the suitcase shut.

Men had arrived outside The Shadow’s door. Someone was pounding; the gruff tones of Sheriff Brock were calling for Mr. Arnaud.

SILENTLY, The Shadow placed the bag on the window sill. He attached the end of the rope to the bag handle; then swung himself out into darkness.

Stretching upward, The Shadow gained the edge of the hotel roof. His shape was a mass of swinging blackness as it ascended. From the roof, The Shadow tugged at the cord. The suitcase swung like a pendulum; then it was drawn up to where The Shadow crouched.

A muffled crash from the room below. The sheriff had jolted the door with his shoulder; the lock had broken. A light blinked on below. Crouched on the roof’s edge, The Shadow listened. He could hear voices engaged in discussion.

Two figures appeared by the open window. The Shadow could discern them as he leaned from the blackened roof. One man was Sheriff Brock; the other Vic Marquette.

“Chase the reporters,” suggested Vic in a tone that The Shadow could hear. “Tell them to go downstairs with the clerk.”

Brock barked an order. The Shadow heard departing footsteps; the muffled sound of a closing door.

Brock and Marquette remained by the window; The Shadow heard the sheriff state:

“This fellow Arnaud beat it, all right. That makes him look suspicious to me. The clerk says for sure that he came up here.”

“Maybe he is phony,” returned Marquette. “But as soon as we got over here to the hotel and heard the clerk’s description of him, I knew that it couldn’t be Clint Spadling.”

“Then what did you come up for?” inquired the sheriff.

“On account of the reporters,” explained Marquette. “They were at our heels. They figured we were looking for somebody. Listen, sheriff: we’ll let those newshawks think we were after Arnaud. Not a word to them about Spadling. Understand?”

“I’m with you on it. But are you sure that Arnaud couldn’t be Spadling? Might be disguised, you know.”

“Not a chance. The clerk says Arnaud is tall; with clear complexion and a solemn face. Spadling is bulky like; he couldn’t hide that. What’s more, he’s dark; and his mug is a mean one. He couldn’t keep those bulging teeth of his out of sight.”

“We’ll look for him.”

“Right; and when we locate Spadling, we’ll have a line on any phony business that’s been going on around here. The man’s a bad egg. Always has been.”

The speaker moved back into the room. A door slam told of their departure. The Shadow crept along the roof; he dropped his bag to the fire escape; then descended. He reached the coupe in back of the hotel. He started the car and drove slowly away along a secluded street.

CLYDE BURKE was eating an egg sandwich at the local lunch counter when a man entered and looked at Clyde and other reporters. The fellow inquired:

“Who’s Mr. Burke?”

Clyde acknowledged the name. The man handed him an envelope.

“Friend of yours sent this,” he stated. “Some gent in a coupe. Asked me to bring it in here.”

Clyde opened the message. He held it so he alone could see the writing. Coded words in bluish ink — orders from The Shadow. The writing faded to blankness; a way with all messages between The Shadow and his agents. Clyde smiled as he thrust the blank sheet in his pocket. He tossed a quarter dollar to the messenger, who grinned his thanks and strolled out.

Outside of Paulington, a coupe was approaching the fork. It swung left at the junction point; from the darkness behind the wheel came a whispered laugh. The Shadow, his part of Arnaud ended, was faring forth on a new and important mission.