The Condor

CHAPTER XV. MARQUETTE LISTENS

VIC MARQUETTE was glowering across the desk in Burgess Dowden’s office. Dowden, himself, looked uneasy. Sheriff Brock, also present, shared the concern that the burgess felt.

“I’ll grant you one point,” declared Marquette. “If it hadn’t been for those newspaper accounts, I wouldn’t have come here. I would be looking over around Southbridge, where Spadling mailed his letter.

“But now that I am here, I’m in a jam. These reporters know I’m somebody. I can’t move without them being on my neck. If I let them know I’m looking for Clint Spadling; if the word gets out that I’m a Federal man, the whole job will be queered. If—”

Marquette paused. Someone was pounding at the office door. Vic nodded to the sheriff; Brock bellowed to come in.

Hank, one of the countrymen who had helped the sheriff after the cabin blast, entered. He was wearing a deputy’s badge. Puffed with self-importance, he made an announcement to the sheriff.

“Jest picked up a suspicious character,” informed Hank. “Leastwise, some of the boys did. Looks like the fellow we’ve been a-hunting for. Hain’t shaved; clothes all covered with burrs. Ketched him a-walking down toward the railway depot—”

“What’s his name?” demanded the sheriff.

“Hadn’t found out,” returned Hank. “Says he hadn’t a-talking to nobody except you. They’re bringing him up here. A-coming in now.”

There were footsteps on the stairs. Brock went to the door. He saw two deputies marching an unshaven man with them. Brock beckoned. The deputies brought their charge into the room.

Brock waved reporters back; then told the deputies to follow. He closed the door to survey the prisoner.

Before Brock could say a word, Marquette was on his feet. The operative had been waiting for the door to close. Now he sprang forward, his hand extended.

“Vincent!”

HARRY grinned as he heard Vic’s welcome. He shook hands with Marquette while Dowden and Brock stared in astonishment. Then Marquette introduced the prisoner.

“An old friend of mine,” he explained. “Harry Vincent, from New York. He’s been a valuable aid in certain government cases. If he knows anything about this cabin business, you’ll hear it. Go ahead, Vincent.”

“Mighty odd, meeting you here, Vic,” laughed Harry. “It’s a break for me, I suppose. It seems as though coincidence has struck me ever since I came to this town.”

“Were you up at that cabin?” queried Brock.

“Let me tell my story,” returned Harry. “After all, there’s not much to it; but it’s been something of an ordeal. I came up here for a vacation. It turned into a camping trip.”

“You’re the fellow who bought the car—”

Brock was blurting another interruption. Marquette stopped him and motioned for Harry to continue.

Harry began with a direct answer to the sheriff’s unfinished query.

“I arrived in Paulington two nights ago,” declared The Shadow’s agent. “I saw the hotel and thought of stopping there. But I happened to make inquiry at the garage and I learned that there was an unoccupied cabin on the hillside.

“I thought that I should see the place; then find out who owned it and rent it for a few weeks, if it proved suitable. I leased a flivver from the garage man and followed his directions. A tire went flat when I reached the abandoned road.

“After fixing the tire, I went on to find the cabin. Halfway up the path, I stopped. I saw a light blinking somewhere near the spot where I thought the cabin must be. Then came an explosion. It seemed as though the whole side of the hill was a mass of fire.

“I was half stunned. By the time I was recovered from the shock, I saw lights coming my direction. I took to the woods, my bag with me. My return to the road was cut off. I didn’t know what would happen next.”

“Logical enough,” observed Marquette, as Harry paused. “That would have seemed like a tough spot to any one, sheriff.”

Brock nodded his agreement. So did Dowden.

“My bag was pretty heavy,” resumed Harry, “but I didn’t notice it. Not until I was a mile up the slope. I wanted to get away and stay under cover. When I stopped to think things over, I felt sure that the dynamiters must have found my flivver.

“I couldn’t go back to the car. I wandered around to get my bearings and finally I struck a broad, stony ledge that seemed like a good landmark.”

“Table Rock,” put in the sheriff. “Go on with the story.”

“I CAMPED up above the ledge,” stated Harry. “The weather had turned nice and I liked the woods. So I decided to camp another night and come into town today.

“But this morning, I heard new prowlers along the slope. I hid my bag and cut over to the north of the hill, waiting for darkness. Then I came back, picked up my bag and headed for town. I didn’t look for the flivver.

“I’d like to know what that bunch is doing on the hill. I don’t know how many were there two nights ago; but it sounded like a dozen today. I figured they were outlaws—”

“They were my men, today,” interposed the sheriff. “We thought you’d been blowed up in that shack, young fellow. But that pack two nights ago — well, it beats me figuring who they were. There’s no outlaws in these parts. I reckon we’ll have to do some heavy scouring.”

“Let’s hold it off, sheriff,” suggested Marquette, seriously. “The best thing we can do right now is get rid of those reporters. Let them stay away until we have a real story for them.”

“How will you manage that?” queried the burgess. “I refer to the matter of sending the reporters back to New York.”

“Easily,” returned Marquette. “Here we have Vincent, the man that was supposed to be dead. An explosion without a victim is no newspaper yarn.”

“That’s right,” agreed the sheriff. “And after they’ve gone, we can start looking—”

The burgess stopped Brock with a headshake. Marquette saw it and smiled.

“Vincent is all right,” declared Vic. “In fact, it would be a good idea to have him stay here. He might as well know why I am on the ground.

“You see, Vincent” — Vic swung to Harry — “I’m looking for a scoundrel named Geoffrey Spadling. Known as Clint Spadling, to his pals. A smart crook, Spadling. Something of a promoter in his way.

“He has contacts with smugglers, counterfeiters and what not. When he gets a good proposition, he brings in others to help him. Well, a few days ago, we raided a print shop out in Cleveland. It was a blind for a counterfeiter’s outfit.

“We picked up some plates and a batch of queer money. Along with the fake mazuma was a note to one of the gang. It was signed by Clint Spadling, telling the fellow to meet him in Southbridge.

“I figured the appointment wouldn’t be kept. I intended to come to Southbridge myself. Then I read about the explosion near here. It just hit me that Spadling might be hooked up with it. I’ve got an idea right now as to what it’s all about.”

Brock and Dowden surveyed Marquette with interest. The operative smiled.

“SUPPOSE Spadling was here with an outfit,” suggested Marquette, “with a money machine working. He’s pretty foxy. He’d have read about that raid in Cleveland. It got into the newspapers. He’d know that we might be on his trail.”

“You mean he could have been using the shack?” questioned the burgess. “As headquarters for his band?”

“That’s the idea, burgess,” broke in the sheriff. “Marquette means that the gang may have blown up the place to get rid of any evidence against them.”

“Not quite,” asserted Marquette. “Spadling is too smart a bird for that, sheriff. He would have a more elaborate headquarters than an abandoned cabin. The purpose of the explosion would be to make us think that he had used the cabin as his base.”

“The cabin could have been a blind,” nodded the burgess. “The real headquarters located somewhere else.”

“That’s it,” acknowledged Marquette. “That’s why I’m staying in town. And Vincent, too, in case he may be useful. We’re going to look for places where the crew might be located. I’m just beginning to get the drift of what Spadling’s game might be.”

Brock swung to Dowden.

“Say, burgess,” blurted the sheriff, pounding the desk as he spoke, “you know that swell lodge around the other side of the slope? What a place that’d be for a smart gang!”

“Mountview Lodge?” Dowden smiled as he shook his head. “Hardly, Brock. Griscom Treft, the man who owns it, is a millionaire. He has lived there for six years.”

“You’re right, burgess. Just the same, nobody knows much about Treft. I wouldn’t have suspicioned anything, mind you — in fact, I don’t say that I’m suspicioning yet. But the slope can’t swallow people. They’ve got to be somewhere.”

“Mountview Lodge,” mused Marquette. “Is it the only place nearby that has a good front?”

“The only one,” admitted the burgess. “The farms hereabout are of little account. It might be worth your while, Marquette, to go over to the lodge.”

“Let him try it,” clucked the sheriff. “Say — did you ever see anybody who’d been inside that fence of Treft’s? I’ve been over there myself; and it’s my opinion those wires on the fence are hooked up with an alarm.

“The lock on that gate is something nobody could bust. And who ever comes out of the place? Nobody except the chauffeur; that sneaky-looking fellow with a face like a rat. Drives down town in his coupe to buy grub. Goes over to Southbridge off and on, too. I’ve seen him there.”

“There are guests at the lodge,” recalled the burgess. “Sometimes one of them is seen with the chauffeur. Do you know, I am commencing to suspect a bit myself.”

“Apparently,” said Marquette, sourly, “it would be impossible for me to enter Mountview Lodge, no matter who might be in there.”

“What’s that?” The sheriff thrust forth his beefy jaw. “You say no matter who’s in there? Listen, Marquette — if you think the dynamite guys are at Mountview Lodge, I’ll take you in there.

“We don’t stand for too much ceremony in this county. When we want search warrants, we get them. Quick, too. If we make mistakes, we apologize and nobody feels sore. If a man’s got nothing to hide, he won’t care if the law looks in on him.

“You say the word and we’ll walk into Mountview Lodge. And we’ll do it some way that will work the way we want. Without anybody knowing we’re coming, until we’re there.”

IT was plain that Brock meant what he said. Marquette looked pleased. He glanced at a calendar, then remarked:

“Today is the tenth, sheriff. How soon can you have that warrant ready?”

“I’ll catch Judge Foxcroft tomorrow,” returned Brock. “I’ll have the warrant dated for the twelfth. Does that suit?”

“It does,” agreed Marquette. “Maybe we will use it; maybe we won’t. I’ll think it over, sheriff. Right now” — Vic was rising — “I’m going out to scare away the reporters.

“You’re coming with me, Vincent. You can stay at the hotel. After you’ve shaved, we’ll go out and get a real meal. You ought to be hungry by now.”

“I was lucky enough to have a pound bar of chocolate in my bag,” stated Harry. “I grabbed some ham and eggs along with coffee when I reached town tonight.”

“It won’t hurt to eat again,” decided Marquette. “Come along. I’ll send the reporters in, burgess, after I’ve talked with them. You and the sheriff can do the rest.”

Dowden and Brock nodded. Vic and Harry went out of the office. Downstairs they encountered the reporters. Vic introduced Harry, who duplicated the statement that he had made in Dowden’s office.

Vic Marquette started for the hotel, while two reporters went into the office building. Clyde Burke lingered long enough to grip Harry Vincent’s hand. The warmth of the clasp told the joy that Clyde had experienced over his fellow agent’s return.

“I’ll slip you a report,” confided Harry in a low tone. “At the lunch wagon. Your car’s just outside of town. You’ll find a note in it, where to go for contact.”

Harry followed Marquette. He registered at the hotel. Alone in his room, he took time before shaving to inscribe a report to The Shadow. This told of Vic Marquette’s decision to investigate Mountview Lodge.

Vic had listened to Harry’s story. It had registered. But the brief tale had produced a cross-development.

The Shadow had ordered Harry to make no statement regarding the death of Clint Spadling, the actual victim of the cabin explosion.

The Shadow’s purpose had been to minimize the importance of the blast. For once, The Shadow’s plans had met with a reverse twist. Chance discourse in the office of Burgess Dowden had brought suspicion upon Mountview Lodge.

Vic Marquette believed that crooks might be there. Dangerous men, headed by Clint Spadling. Crooks were there indeed; but of a stripe more menacing than any Marquette had ever encountered.

A battle was impending between the law and The Condor. The odds would lie against the law. Yet Harry had a hunch that The Shadow would not prevent it. For The Shadow, himself, would be close at hand to weigh the balance in the favor of justice.