The Condor

CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND AGENT

AT six o’clock the next afternoon, another passenger alighted from the outbound local and looked curiously about the platform of the Paulington station. This arrival was Cliff Marsland.

Like Harry Vincent on the day before, Cliff was carrying a bag and presented a businesslike appearance.

But his actions were more definite than Harry’s had been. Cliff was making no effort to cover his arrival.

One reason was because the day was cloudless and there was no darkening gloom obscuring the station platform. The other reason was the fact that Cliff had a definite objective. He was going openly to Mountview Lodge.

Across the street, beside the old hotel, Cliff saw the projecting front of an old motor bus. He noticed a driver coming from the hotel. Picking up his bag, he went to make inquiry.

As he left the station, Cliff had a feeling that someone was watching him. He shot a glance back over his shoulder; the only person that he saw was a man who stepped from view beyond the station building.

Glimpsing no more than the man’s back, Cliff paused to see if the fellow would reappear. After a few seconds of vain waiting, Cliff decided that it would be poor policy to stand gawking from the center of the street. Turning, he continued on to the parked bus.

“I’m going to a place called Mountview,” informed Cliff, speaking to the driver. “How do I get there?”

“Hop in,” was the reply. “We go past there. It’s a half mile walk you’ll have, unless somebody is going to meet you where the road turns off to the lodge.”

Cliff climbed aboard. The bus started, and rolled out of Paulington.

Cliff studied the terrain from the window. As they neared the fork, he noted a ledge high up on the darkening hillside. His view was but momentary; apparently Table Rock could be seen from only a few spots.

Cliff’s information about the terrain was confined to a few important mental notes. Mountview Lodge, Table Rock, the cabin on the western slope — these facts were all that he required. His job was to stick close to the lodge; to visit the cabin only if unusual opportunity offered.

Maps would have been a dangerous thing for him to carry. Cliff was traveling into the enemy’s camp. It was well for him to come openly, with nothing to cover. Cliff thought of that fact as he fingered the false Blue Pearl, secure in the pocket of his vest.

Two nights ago, Cliff had openly committed crime, abetted by The Shadow. That crime, however, was one that had been faked in behalf of justice. The Shadow had learned of a crook called The Condor. To reach that foe, The Shadow had required Michael Walpin’s collection of pearls, particularly the Blue Pearl.

Yet The Shadow had not chosen to risk these prizes after gaining them. That was why he had purchased imitations, with a replica of the Blue Pearl. Cliff was carrying false treasures; even if they should be lost, Walpin would not suffer. The Shadow held the collector’s pearls secure.

The robbery at Walpin’s had created a sensation, thanks to The Shadow’s crafty plan of bringing in Clyde Burke. The Classic reporter had done much to place the episode in the public eye. That was a factor that would smooth Cliff’s path. Cliff was chuckling over it as the bus swayed along the paved road that continued right from the fork.

Then came a snatch of conversation that brought Cliff to attention. A local passenger was perched beside the bus driver. The two were shouting their discussion above the roar and rumble of the obsolete conveyance.

“IT mighta been some grudge,” the passenger was asserting. “But I can’t understand it nohow. Who’d want to get rid of that old cabin? It wasn’t harming nobody. Empty, warn’t it?”

The driver’s reply was drowned.

“Yeah,” resumed the passenger, “it was a city chap bought that car off’n Jerry Cassidy. But Jerry hasn’t been able to tell nobody what he looks like.”

Another statement from the driver. Cliff could not catch it; but he heard the passenger’s final comment.

“Well, Howie Brock’s looking into it,” the fellow stated, “and he’s a right smart sheriff, Howie is. Best we’ve had in this county in a long spell.”

The bus had skirted the hill. The passenger settled back in his seat. But Cliff had heard enough to trouble him. He knew that something had happened in the cabin on the slope.

Early dusk was present, for the sunset was obscured now that the bus had reached the east side of the hill. Cliff stared from the window; the gloom of passing trees formed a blackening mass. Then the bus swung to the right and came to a stop; Cliff saw a winding road that went off to the left. This was the stopping place for Mountview Lodge.

One minute later, Cliff was standing in the road, surveying the path that he had to follow. The bus was gone; no car was in sight.

Cliff started up the road to the left. Paving clicked beneath his feet. The road was a good one, as private highways went.

Cliff had walked less than a hundred yards when he heard the approach of a car behind him. A coupe drew up; a uniformed chauffeur peered from the window. Cliff could glimpse the fellow’s face in the dusk. He noted a shrewd, ratlike expression.

“Are you going to the lodge?” questioned the chauffeur, smoothly. “To see Mr. Treft?”

“I’m going to the lodge,” replied Cliff.

The chauffeur studied Cliff half suspiciously, then opened the door.

“Climb in,” he offered. “Bring your bag along; there’s room for it. No use opening the rumble seat.”

The coupe rolled forward. The road continued through thickening trees. Then came a patch of light ahead. The car pulled up in front of a massive gate. Through the iron grille, Cliff viewed the low-walled structure of Mountview Lodge.

From each side of the gateposts ran a high picket fence. This barrier surrounded the grounds of Mountview Lodge. Moreover, it was equipped with thick barbed wire along the picket tops.

The gate was wired also; to open it, the chauffeur was forced to alight and unlock. That done, he returned to the coupe, drove through, stepped out and went back to lock up. Taking the wheel again, he drove to the front of the lodge.

The freshness of the gray stone walls indicated that the building was not an old one. A broad front veranda, with white posts, looked pleasant and inviting. One ominous aspect alone governed Mountview Lodge. Every window was fronted by a crisscross metal grating.

A liveried servant was standing on the porch. While Cliff remained in the coupe, he saw the servant peering curiously in his direction. The chauffeur alighted; Cliff heard their conversation.

“Who is it, Corey?” questioned the servant.

“That’s for you to find out, Trossler,” replied the chauffeur. “Someone coming to the lodge; that’s all I know.”

Cliff stepped from the coupe as Trossler came down from the porch. The servant saw the bag and took it; then inquired:

“You have come to see Mr. Treft?”

“He owns the lodge?” inquired Cliff.

“Certainly,” replied Trossler.

“Then,” decided Cliff, “Mr. Treft is the man I should like to see.”

“Very well, sir.”

Trossler carried the bag into the house. Cliff followed, to find himself in a luxuriously furnished hallway.

Trossler pointed to a heavy-cushioned chair; Cliff sat down and watched the servant pass through a doorway.

A FEW minutes later, Trossler returned. He picked up the bag again and ushered Cliff into a lavishly furnished study. Thick rugs occupied the entire floor; the walls were tapestried; the furniture was of rich mahogany.

A keen-eyed man was standing behind a desk. He was of medium height, stoop-shouldered but of wiry build. His gray-haired head was tilted forward; his eyes peered upward from beneath bushy brows. Cliff saw straight lips, topped by a gray mustache with pointed tips.

There was a sharpness in the man’s scrutiny that made Cliff feel uneasy. He knew that he was face to face with a person of powerful mentality. Dignity, poise and friendliness seemed present in the man’s expression; but the fixation of those eyes told Cliff that surface indications were nothing more than presence.

“Good evening.” The gray-haired man spoke pleasantly, but his voice, like his expression, was deceptive.

“My name is Griscom Treft. May I inquire yours?”

“Cliff Marsland,” replied The Shadow’s agent.

Treft motioned to a chair; as Cliff took it, the gray-haired man sat down and leaned both elbows on the desk.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked.

Until he put the question, Treft’s body had obscured the center of the wall behind him. Now, with Cliff properly seated, with Treft bent forward, that space was in plain view. Cliff stared.

Upon a dull red background, he viewed a silver figure woven in the tapestry. The shape was that of a large bird, its neck high; its beak the pointed bill of a vulture. Long talons glittered beneath the silver body. The figure was that of a condor.

“Your purpose here?”

As Treft’s smooth query was repeated, Cliff reached into his vest pocket. He felt a rounded surface between fingers and thumb. He produced the false Blue Pearl and extended his hand beneath the light that glowed from a desk lamp.

“I brought this,” stated Cliff.

“A pearl,” expressed Treft, mildly. “Quite a rare one, I should judge.”

“It is the Blue Pearl.”

“The Blue Pearl?”

Treft’s query was well-feigned; but his eyes were shrewd as they peered upward. They offset Treft’s tone; they made the inquiry pointed.

“Yes,” replied Cliff, steadily. “A man Gruzen hoped to bring it here. He died, however, in the penitentiary. He passed the word to a fellow named Luff Cadley.

“I knew Luffs.” Cliff was meeting Treft’s eyes as he continued. “We were in the Big House together. Luff wanted to snatch the Blue Pearl; then I was to bring it here. Before he had a chance, he was rubbed out.

“So I did the job on my own. I’ve got the others with me, in the suitcase. A nice lot, all of them. Michael Walpin knows pearls, right enough—”

“Stop!” Treft was on his feet; his face severe, his tone indignant. “Are you referring to the New York robbery of two days ago? Do you mean that you are the rogue who stole that prized collection of rare pearls?”

Cliff nodded.

“And why, sir” — Treft paused with outraged expression — “why, sir, have you dared to come to me? What did you expect to find here?”

The man’s fists were clenched. His eyes were fierce; his whole attitude was one of indignation. Cliff retained his steady stare.

“I came to find The Condor,” he replied. “I have seen his symbol on the wall behind you.”

TREFT’S fists unclenched. The gray-haired man smiled broadly as he settled back in his chair. A chuckle escaped his lips.

“We have been expecting you,” acknowledged Treft. “You did a fine job, Marsland. I have read the newspaper accounts. You are sure your trail is completely covered?”

“Absolutely,” returned Cliff. “I made a quicker get-away than they thought. I caught the Buffalo Mail at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. I was away before they watched the stations.”

“And you have been traveling since?”

“Yes. I’m in the clear. No gang connections. Not a thing they can trail me by.”

“Except your ability at opening safes.”

Cliff shook his head.

“That was the sweet part of it,” he explained. He arose, picked up his bag and placed it on the desk, while Treft looked on keenly. “Luff had been up to Walpin’s. He had cracked the safe while Walpin was away; but the pearls must have been in a safe-deposit vault at that time.

“Luff was waiting for Walpin to get back, so he could attempt the safe again. Knew the combination — ready for a cinch job. Then he was bumped; but not until after he’d told me all he knew. That’s why I did it right in front of Walpin. To make it look like I knew safes.”

Cliff knew that this fabrication was convincing. It was the story that he had been instructed to tell, by The Shadow. But Cliff had wanted to avoid Treft’s gaze while giving the false account. He had used a pretext for that purpose. He was opening the suitcase all the while he spoke.

Bringing out the casket, Cliff revealed the array within. He saw Treft’s eyes gleam. He knew that the man was taking the imitations for genuine.

Picking up the Blue Pearl, Treft inserted it with the others. He chuckled as he arose. He extended his hand to Cliff.

The Shadow’s agent received the clasp. As his hand pressed Treft’s, Cliff gained his second startlement.

Never before had he clasped such a long, thin-boned hand. Nor had he experienced the pressure of hard-gripping finger tips.

Griscom Treft’s hand was a veritable claw; one that possessed a tearing force. Staring open-eyed, Cliff viewed the silver bird emblazoned on the wall. He realized that Treft’s clasp could rival that of a condor’s talon.

The chuckle that Treft gave was not needed. Cliff Marsland understood; he met the eyes that gleamed like the beady optics of a bird of prey. Another completing touch that was not required. Griscom Treft was not the intermediary that Cliff had suspected he might be. The gray-haired master of Mountview Lodge was The Condor!

TREFT’S fierce clasp loosened, leaving blood-red blotches on Cliff’s hand — marks that faded slowly. In a sharp voice, The Condor called for Trossler. The servant appeared, his face solemnly smug.

“Take Marsland’s bag to his room,” ordered Treft. “He will remain with us, Trossler.”

There was a harshness in the tone, now that Treft had no need to disguise his voice. Almost the vicious shriek of a preying bird, that tone — one that well-fitted The Condor.

“Remain here” — The Condor spoke these words to Cliff — “so I can speak to you of certain matters. You have become one of a select circle, Marsland.”

Cliff nodded his understanding.

“Come.” Cliff felt the dig of claws as The Condor clasped a hand to his shoulder. “Out to the veranda, where we shall find it more pleasant. Shortly, you will meet the others.”

They strolled out through the hall; they reached the broad veranda and there they paced together, The Condor’s clutch still on Cliff’s shoulder. That grip, perhaps, was one of friendship; but it also expressed a mastery.

Cliff, like the pearls that he had brought, had become a prized possession of The Condor. He was a new member of the band that this supercrook had been gathering. Men of crime, governed by a single master.

This peaceful lodge, its very splendor aiding it to escape the law’s attention, was the headquarters for evil aids who served a vicious, calculating chief.

“You have met Corey, who serves as chauffeur,” Cliff heard The Condor say. “He is one of us. So is Trossler, whose present capacity is that of house man. Those are blinds; every man has his pretended purpose here.

“Some are caretakers; others are guests. Two are hidden; they need no presence, since they are never seen. You will have a place, Marsland, for the short while that you will be here. Until the thirteenth; after that, our new plans begin.”

THE CONDOR paused. Darkness had settled completely; Cliff felt a fierce antagonism toward this harsh-voiced creature who stood beside him. He could still feel the clutch of Treft’s claw upon his shoulder.

“By the way.” The Condor’s tone was lowered. “Did you hear any talk in town — or while coming on the bus?”

“About what?” inquired Cliff.

“An explosion,” replied The Condor, “that occurred last night. I sent men to destroy a cabin on the other side of the hill. A suspicious prowler intended to use it as headquarters, perhaps to spy upon us. We eliminated him along with his new residence.”

Harsh sarcasm formed the tone of The Condor’s utterance. Cliff restrained himself with difficulty; then replied, his voice a bit thoughtful:

“I heard nothing mentioned about the matter.”

“Logical enough,” agreed The Condor. “Well, Corey may have something to tell. Come, let us go in the house.”

A distant purr sounded far off above the trees. The Condor paused to stare at tiny lights that were passing slowly above the horizon.

“Another airplane,” he said, harshly. “I don’t like them about; but it can’t be helped. There was one that passed over here twice, one day last week.

“These hills must make it difficult for them to find the airport at Southbridge, five miles northwest of Paulington. Well” — he chuckled as the twinkling lights veered westward — “that pest has gone back to his proper course.”

They entered the house; The Condor’s clasp had lifted. Trossler was there; the master told the servant-crook to show the new guest to his room.

Cliff followed Trossler up the steps to the second floor, while Treft strolled back into the study.

RESTRAINED emotions shook Cliff Marsland when he stood alone. The meeting with The Condor had been grueling; but Cliff had managed it without difficulty, until he had heard those harsh utterances relating to the destruction of the cabin.

Harry Vincent — dead!

The terrible reality throbbed through Cliff Marsland’s brain. The discussion on the bus had troubled him; The Condor’s statement had changed his worry into absolute anguish. At that time when they were pacing back into the house, Cliff was ready to throw off all pretence. He had wanted to seize Griscom Treft and throttle the fiend to death. He had wanted vengeance upon this murderer who had coldly ordered the destruction of the lonely cabin and its occupant.

Then had come the flash that had brought Cliff back to sanity. Those lights upon the horizon.

Slow-moving glimmers of green and red. Treft had spoken of the passing ship as an airplane. Cliff, judging its speed, had known that it must be an autogyro.

The Shadow’s chosen craft! The Shadow had learned of doom. He had come here to take up the work.

It would be The Shadow’s privilege — not Cliff’s — to avenge the death of Harry Vincent.

Such was the thought that steadied Cliff as he heard the clang of a summoning bell. Ready to continue his part, Cliff Marsland strode from his room to join those below.