The Condor

CHAPTER VII. THE MAN AHEAD

TUESDAY morning’s newspapers were blatant in their front-page yarn of crime. The robbery at Michael Walpin’s had excited large headlines and long stories. Wainwright Barth’s presence at the scene had given zest to the reporters.

For the acting commissioner was none too popular with the gentlemen of the press. One man in particular — Clyde Burke, of the Classic — had long awaited an opportunity to hand Barth a jolt.

Clyde, as chance had it, was with Joe Cardona at the time when Barth had summoned the acting inspector. The reporter had followed along to get a story. The coincidence of Clyde’s arrival had made Barth fume; but it had brought a smile from Lamont Cranston.

The reason was that Clyde Burke was, secretly, an agent of The Shadow. Long a friend of Detective Joe Cardona, it had been natural for Clyde to be with the sleuth who was at present acting as inspector. It fitted well with The Shadow’s plans. He wanted publicity to follow this robbery at Walpin’s.

AMONG the interested readers of the day’s news was a young man who had chosen to travel away from New York on Tuesday. This chap had picked up evening newspapers in addition to the morning journals. He was reading the accounts as he rode aboard a jostling local that was rolling toward the town of Paulington.

This young man was Harry Vincent agent of The Shadow. In the morning, he had received maps and instructions from an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. Well provided with information, Harry had started out in behalf of The Shadow.

“Paulington next stop—”

The conductor’s bawl ended Harry’s reading. He had just reached the end of a statement that Michael Walpin had made for the press. Walpin had sworn that no one outside himself could have known the combination of his panel or his wall safe. That had deepened the mystery which concerned the burglar’s simple mode of operation.

“Paulington next—”

Harry looked from the window. Afternoon had waned; heavy clouds had increased, gathering dusk. The premature approach of darkness was to Harry’s liking. For The Shadow’s agent had no desire to be noticed in the town.

The Shadow had picked cut a logical headquarters. That was the tumble-down cabin on the hillside.

From that spot, Harry would be able to pay trips to the vicinity of Mountview Lodge. Moreover, he could be reached by Cliff Marsland when the latter arrived.

Harry’s policy would be to lay low; if he did not hear from Cliff, he could make cautious efforts at contact. He would have full opportunity to work as a free agent. No reports would be necessary until he held important news. Harry Vincent was the man ahead.

The train was grinding to a stop. From the window Harry saw the end of a station platform. He made his way from the car and stepped off as soon as the train ceased motion.

Several persons were on the platform; but none paid any attention to Harry as he alighted with his bag.

There was still sufficient daylight to discern faces plainly; on that account, Harry skirted the station.

Looking across a street, he observed a sign that read “Paulington House.” The hotel was antiquated; but it appeared comfortable. Better than a shack on the hillside, thought Harry; but duty commanded that he choose the battered cabin for the night.

Gazing in another direction, Harry saw a garage. That was the place he wanted. Picking up his bag, he made in the direction of the garage, while the local, its bell clanging, was puffing from the station.

ODDLY, Harry Vincent had accomplished the very thing that he had set out not to do. His whole purpose was to avoid notice in Paulington. His action of gazing at the hotel, then at the garage, had made him more conspicuous than he realized.

Among the persons on the station platform was a bulky, dark-faced man who had glanced casually at arriving passengers. This fellow had passed Harry by; but as he walked from the platform, he had spied The Shadow’s agent for the second time. It was then that he had noticed Harry’s hesitancy.

Standing by the little station, the dark-faced man delivered a fanglike smile. He waited until Harry had almost reached the garage; then, with brisk stride, this watcher took up the trail.

The garage was gloomy inside, except for a corner where one bright light showed the motor of a car. A man in overalls was doing repair work when Harry Vincent approached. The man looked up as he heard the footsteps. Harry stayed just out of the light.

“Good evening,” he stated, in a pleasant tone. “I’ve just come into town and I’m looking for some information. Maybe you could supply it.”

“Glad to,” returned the garage man, returning to his work. “What do you want to know about, friend?”

“First of all, a good place to stay.”

“There’s the Paulington House, where most visitors stop.”

“I mean somewhere outside of town. I heard there was a lodge near here.”

“There is: Mountview Lodge. But it’s no hotel. Owned by a wealthy duck named Griscom Treft. Only his friends stay there. Used to be sort of a summer resort, years ago. They called it Mountview, then, and it belonged to old Roger Silson. Treft bought it from the estate and built his lodge there.”

Harry smiled to himself. He was getting the type of information that he wanted.

“That sounds interesting,” remarked The Shadow’s agent. “I should think there would be some cottages or cabins hereabouts. Places that could be rented.”

“Nope,” said the garage man. “Nary a one. Unless you count that old shack up on the hill. Some artist built it for a cabin; then let it go to pieces.”

“No one lives there now?”

“No one. The artist didn’t even own the property. He’d known old Silson and the old man let him settle there like a squatter. But the artist abandoned the place before old Silson died.

“Tell you, though. You might have some luck at one of the farmhouses. I can’t say just where. You’d have to ride around some and make inquiries.”

HARRY caught a sound as the garage man was speaking. It sounded like a scraping footstep in the gloom. He looked about, but saw no one. The yawning door of the garage showed daylight beyond it; but all was dark along the inner walls. Harry decided that he had imagined the sound.

“You’d need a car,” the garage man was saying. “I’ve got an old flivver here that’s not so bad. Just a junky roadster, but if you want to rent the thing—”

“Where is it?” put in Harry, promptly.

“Over there in the corner,” replied the garage man. “I’d sell it for fifty bucks. The rubber’s not so good; but the boat runs, and that’s what counts most.”

Harry walked over and examined the car. With a smile, he tossed his bag in beside the driver’s seat. He pulled cash from his pocket, walked back and thrust fifty dollars before the eyes of the garage man.

“Suppose you let me have it,” said Harry. “I have a driver’s license; I can use your old tags for a while. We can say that I’m renting the car until then.”

“I guess that would be a go,” decided the garage man, as he counted the money and poked it into a pocket of his overalls. “When are you going to take it out? Tonight?”

“Yes. It’s about half past six right now. I’ll get something to eat and be back here at seven.”

“But this is too late to go looking for farmhouses. Especially if you don’t know the territory.”

“I have a different idea. I’m going out to the cabin you spoke about. If nobody owns it, I can stay there overnight if I like the place. Then I can look around tomorrow.”

“You won’t like it, friend. I’ll bet you’ll wind up at the Paulington House tonight.”

“Possibly. Say, though — just whereabouts is the cabin?”

The garage man wiped his grimy hands; standing in the light, he talked to Harry in the gloom.

“Go out to the fork,” he directed. “Take the road to the left. You come to another road forking off to the right. An old rocky road that nobody uses any more. Take it until you come to a couple of big birch trees. On the right.

“That’s where the path begins. It’s about a mile up to the cabin, I reckon. Maybe more, because the path’s rough and it winds. If you leave here at seven, you ought to get to the path in twenty minutes, and up the hill in twenty more. Half to three quarters of an hour.

“It’s not far; but with the way the road cuts away, you’re not getting closer after you pass the fork. If it was daylight, you could walk it, making shortcuts; but not knowing the ground, you’d better use the regular path.”

HARRY nodded his understanding. The garage man went back to his work. Harry strolled from the garage, leaving his bag in the rickety roadster.

A few minutes after he had gone, a man arose from beside a sedan in a corner of the garage.

Quietly, this listener stole out through the door without the garage man noticing him. The spy’s features became plain in the last glimmer of daylight. He was the dark-faced fellow with the ugly grin.

There was a little restaurant down the street. The dark-faced man sneaked toward its lighted window; peering in, he saw Harry Vincent at the counter, ordering dinner. The dark-faced man uttered a nasty grunt.

Sidling from the window, he set off at a brisk pace, his fists clenched, his lips snarling. It was plain that he held a malice toward this stranger who had shown too much interest in the cabin on the hill.

As the man ahead, Harry Vincent had walked into danger without knowing it. Something was already known concerning his plans. The dark-faced spy suspected even more from what little he had learned.

Danger would mark Harry Vincent’s coming to the cabin on the hill. The presence of that dark-faced man was a menace that presaged a coming doom.