The Condor

CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN AT THE MILL

THICK darkness lay beneath overhanging trees. Silence of night was disturbed only by the ripple of a little stream. Then, barely audible in the gloom, came the closing of a door, followed by a momentary swish.

The Shadow had found the side road to the old mill. He had followed it until he discovered an open space beside the road. There he had parked the coupe, between the road and the stream close by. His car was well obscured by the surrounding trees.

Moving stealthily along the bank of the stream, The Shadow chose a sure course toward the old mill.

Despite the sloshing mud that brinked the water, he progressed so silently that all sound of his advance was covered by the babbling of the stream.

At the end of one hundred yards, The Shadow encountered a structure of wood. It was the trough of an old millrace, a crude flume that came from a dark building bulking up ahead.

The Shadow followed this new line. He reached the wooden wall of the mill; moved to the right across a shaky timber; then skirted the side of the building to find the dim light of a window.

Here The Shadow edged head and shoulder to the lower corner of a grimy pane. The glass was absent from the upper sash. As The Shadow looked into the building, he could hear the sound of muffled voices.

Two men were seated in an oddly furnished room. It had once been combination office and storeroom; now it had been fashioned into a crude living room. In one corner, The Shadow saw a battered counter; in another, shelves that were sturdy in construction. There was a roll-top desk beyond the counter; a stove in the center of the room.

Added to these relics of the mill’s forgotten glory were stuffed chairs and heavy tables that had come from an old-fashioned parlor. The illumination was provided by two kerosene lamps; the light was sufficient to show the faces of the occupants.

One was a brawny, long-limbed man whose face was hatchetlike. Hard-eyed, smooth-shaven, this individual was dressed in clothes that were new, but poor in fit. It was plain that he must be the proprietor of the old mill.

The other was a gawky, dull-faced rustic, whose chinless lower jaw was engaged in gum chewing.

Seated on the edge of a chair, his elbows slouched upon a table, this youth was drawling in a high-pitched voice.

“You know, Uncle Hiram,” he was saying, “folks was a-tellin’ me that this here old mill oughta be opened up again. Hain’t many places hereabouts where they kin get the kinda flour they like.”

“No?” queried the hatchet-faced man gruffly. “Well, if the folks you talk about would mind their own business, it would be more to my liking.”

“They say you’ve got enough money to start it goin’ again, uncle,” put in the youth. “They allow that you was right smart buyin’ an’ sellin’ property. They say there ain’t no need for a man to be retirin’, when he’s no older than you be.”

“You tell them that Hiram Zegler knows what he’s doing. Agree with them that your uncle is a right smart man. Let it go at that, Elisha.”

The gawky youth nodded. He arose from his chair and slouched about the room. He watched Hiram Zegler pluck his hat from a peg on the wall.

“We’re going to town, Elisha,” informed the retired miller. “Get your cap. I’ll let you drive the car.”

“Hadn’t you agoin’ to draw up the net?” Elisha nudged toward a door at the far side of the room. “Mebbe you’d find some likely pickerel, like there was last night.”

“I’m waiting a few days for a good catch,” returned Zegler. “By the way, Elisha, remember that you’re to keep quiet about the way I do my fishing. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Hadn’t nobody agoin’ to make trouble for you. They go polin’ hereabouts an’ the warden, he don’t kick.”

“No? Well, he would if he knew about it. And that’s not all, Elisha. There’s farmers all along here who would put out nets of their own if they knew I was doing it. So keep quiet like you say you’ve been doing. Come along; let’s start.”

Elisha slouched over and took a cap from a peg. Hiram Zegler extinguished the lights. The two went out from the room. When next they appeared, they had made their exit from a small door at the rear of the mill.

THE building was in a large clearing. Black against the side wall, The Shadow watched Zegler and his nephew as they stalked to a tumble-down structure that served as their garage. Lights flashed; a sedan swung out into a rutted drive. Then the car rolled to the road and jounced off in the direction of the Paulington road.

The Shadow pressed the window upward. The sash was unlocked. He made a silent entry in the darkness. His flashlight blinked, guarded by the folds of his cloak. He approached the desk and raised its roll top.

Papers lay in disarray. None of them were important; they were chiefly bills from Paulington merchants, all stamped “Paid.” The Shadow opened small compartments. In one he found an old .32 revolver, unloaded. In another, he discovered a few silver coins.

A bank book promised information; but the stubs bore no reference to the amount of Hiram Zegler’s funds. A tin box contained an assortment of fishhooks.

In the back of the desk, The Shadow uncovered two metal tubes, each about six inches in length and two in diameter. These had tight-fitting screw covers. The Shadow opened each in turn. One held more fishhooks; the other was empty.

Odd bottles of pills were the only other items on view. Apparently Zegler kept nothing of value in the desk. That was not surprising, because the ease of entry to the mill would have made theft simple during Zegler’s absence.

The Shadow’s flashlight glimmered on a stairway that led upward. This indicated sleeping quarters above.

More important to The Shadow was the door that Elisha had indicated. This barrier must lead below the mill. The door was a strong one, fitted with a good lock.

The tiny light glimmered on the lock, while a gloved hand worked with probing pick. A click sounded.

The Shadow opened the door and flashed his light upon a rickety stairway that curved as it descended.

The Shadow closed the door behind him. He followed the curved stairway; as he did, he heard the surge of water. He came to the bottom and found a crude cellar. The center of the floor was open; through it poured the entire bulk of the swift stream that had once provided power to the mill.

There were no openings in these lower walls. The only mode of entrance was from the room above, unless one had chosen to swim under water and come in by the stream itself. As The Shadow moved toward the rear of the mill, he shone his light into the water and discovered the net of which Elisha had spoken.

A thick, curved mesh that blocked the entire stream, the net offered an excellent trap for fish. The strength of the current would tend to bring fish through the channel beneath the mill. Once in the net, they would be apt to stay there.

Moving further back, The Shadow encountered a solid wall that stopped just above the surface of the water. He could feel the rumble of surging current underneath the planks on which he stood. This indicated that the main inlet was but one feeder through which water came.

In fact, there was something placid about the flow of the central channel. The water seemed to increase in power and volume as it reached the net. As The Shadow studied this fact, he caught a sound from above. It sounded like the closing of a door.

Placing his hand against the low ceiling, The Shadow sensed a creaking. Moving forward, he followed it for half a dozen paces. His light was no longer blinking. Someone had entered the mill from the door which Zegler and Elisha had used as exit.

PICKING his way through darkness, The Shadow gained the stairway. He ascended and stopped when he arrived at the closed door. Carefully, he turned the latch. He opened the door a fraction of an inch.

Light gleamed through the opening. The Shadow saw a man moving away from a table upon which stood a lighted lamp.

The newcomer was going toward the desk. He was neither Zegler nor Elisha; The Shadow could tell that, despite the fact that the man had moved into gloom. The intruder reached the desk; there he blinked a flashlight and began to rummage through the papers.

The fellow’s face was away from The Shadow’s view. Slowly, The Shadow opened the door and crept from the stairway. He closed the door noiselessly behind him. Spectral beyond the fringe of light, he looked like a figure from another world.

The Shadow could easily have gained the window by which he had entered. Or, as second choice, he could have glided along the wall to make sure progress to the outer door. Strangely, he took neither course.

Instead, he moved softly to the center of the room. His gloved hands weaponless in front of his black cloak, he took a position a dozen feet behind the man who was inspecting Zegler’s desk.

At no point did he block the lamplight. So careful was his advance that the intruder caught no indication of it. Motionless, The Shadow waited until he saw the intruder pocket the flashlight.

Then The Shadow delivered a hissed laugh. Like a ghost mysteriously materialized in the very center of the room, he spoke his sibilant mirth. Toned to a weird whisper, the laugh shivered its echoes from the walls of this old room.

Then man at the desk wheeled about. As he swung, he shot his right hand to his hip and snapped it upward, to display a gun. Automatically, his quick aim was directed straight toward the figure of The Shadow.

A strained, hunted face showed pale in the gloom. Lips gasped; the right hand dropped weakly.

Mechanically, the intruder stepped forward; then halted. He had reached a spot where his face was within the lamplight’s range.

The Shadow’s laugh had ended. Burning eyes from beneath the slouch hat were fixed upon the countenance before them. No longer did the startled intruder show anxiety; instead, his expression was one of vast relief.

Small wonder. The Shadow had recognized this intruder. That was why he had revealed himself. The man who had turned about from the desk was Harry Vincent.