The Creeper

CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW’S VISIT

IT was early the next evening. Donald Shiloh was seated by the window of a small but sumptuous apartment, overlooking Central Park. On the table beside him lay a newspaper; its scareheads told of murder in a tenement house near the Bowery, with added details of a dead slayer, found in a deserted apartment, seven blocks from the scene of crime.

The police had linked the death of Dopey Delvin with the dead killer, Slugger Haskew. They had examined Slugger’s revolver; the bullets in Dopey’s body matched those of the .38 in the murderer’s pocket. But the newspaper accounts carried no mention of the shattered ebony casket. That explained why Shiloh had tossed the paper aside after glancing through the columns that told of crime.

Twinkling lights of the park did not attract Shiloh’s meditative gaze. He was staring beyond them; the direction of his vision was toward the region where the Doyd mansion was located. Shiloh was thinking of Theresa, wondering whether he should call and learn if new developments had occurred within the ancient mansion.

The telephone bell rang. Jeffrey, a solemn valet with fishlike face, came into the room to answer the call.

He spoke in solemn tones; then held the telephone toward Shiloh, with the low-toned statement:

“It is Miss Theresa Doyd, sir.”

Shiloh sprang from his chair and seized the telephone. He talked in brief, serious tones:

“Hello, Theresa… Yes, I can come to the house… Certainly, at once… Yes, my coupe is out front. It will take me less than twenty minutes.”

Jeffrey brought hat and coat. Briskly, Shiloh left the sumptuous apartment. His time estimate had been correct. Just twenty minutes later, his svelte, dark-green coupe rolled to a stop in front of the gloomy Doyd residence.

Wilfred admitted Shiloh and showed him to the library, where Theresa awaited. The girl closed the door; it was evident that she had something important to say and wanted to be sure that no listeners were about. Tensely, almost terrified, she waited before speaking.

Shiloh guessed that she was listening in dread of creeping footsteps. With a smile at the girl’s alarm, Shiloh opened the door and peered out into the hallway. He returned.

“No one about,” he informed.

SHILOH was wrong. Although he had gazed straight toward the blackness of the rear hall and had seen nothing, a living form was there. This house had gained a silent, unseen listener, almost at the moment when Wilfred had admitted Shiloh.

When the living room door closed for the second time, a shape moved forward. Dim light from the front hall furnished a hazy, almost indistinguishable outline of The Shadow.

While his agents still searched for Jerry Kobal, The Shadow had decided to visit this old mansion, to discover if news of the shattered ebony casket had reached the Doyd heirs. The Shadow had remembered the door at the side of the house. He had chosen it as a means of entry. Obscured by the blackness of the rear hall, he had seen Wilfred announce Shiloh.

The servant had lingered a few moments; then had gone upstairs. The Shadow, coming from gloom, had dropped back when Shiloh reopened the door. This time, however, he did not stay his advance. He reached the library door, turned the knob and pressed the barrier inward, just the fraction of an inch.

The sound of voices came to his ears; he pressed the door no further. He preferred to listen only, rather than run chances of attracting attention should he push the door far enough open to peer within the room.

“What is the trouble, Theresa?” Shiloh was inquiring. “More footsteps? Creeping about to frighten you?”

“No,” replied Theresa. “That is, I have not heard the sounds to-day. Other things have happened, though, Donald. First, I must tell you about Mr. Clavelock’s telephone call.”

“Clavelock is back in town?”

“Yes. Apparently his trip was a brief one. To-day, he heard from the police. He talked with an inspector named Cardona.”

“Have they traced the casket that Myram stole?”

“Yes. But the scroll is missing. Did you read to-day’s newspapers, with their account of a murder in a tenement near the Bowery?”

“I noticed the story. Do you mean that the casket was concerned in that affair?”

“Yes. So Mr. Clavelock was told by the inspector. The casket was found, smashed open, in the room with the murdered man. It showed traces of a hidden compartment in a thin double-bottom; but the scroll is missing.”

Shiloh whistled. His trill carried a serious note. The girl continued with further details.

“The police have identified both the dead man and his slayer,” she explained. “The murderer was a pugilist, I understand, who used to train in a downtown gymnasium; but the place is closed.”

“Don’t they know any of the fellow’s friends?”

“Mr. Clavelock thinks that they may; but apparently the police have not made much progress in their investigation. We can only hope that they may be lucky enough to find the person who has the scroll.”

SHILOH had no comment. He was thinking over what Theresa had said. A minute passed; then the girl spoke again; this time she delivered other information.

“Mark Lundig went out an hour ago,” stated Theresa. “He said that he was going to his hotel; that he might stay there to-night. We are not to expect him back.”

“Did he mention the name of his hotel?” inquired Shiloh.

“No,” returned the girl. “But I am sure that he took the code list with him. It is no longer in the drawer of the old desk.”

“Was it there earlier?”

“Yes — this morning. I looked, to make sure. Before Mark was up. He stayed here last night. He came down at ten o’clock this morning, made some telephone calls and went out.”

“Just when did he return?”

“Before dinner. Meanwhile, a messenger boy had arrived. He had an envelope addressed to Mark Lundig; Wilfred gave the message to Mark when he entered.”

“Did Mark read it?”

“He must have. After he had gone, Donald, I came in here and found the note in the wastebasket. It is very brief, and was written on a typewriter.”

“You read it, Theresa?”

“It simply said: ‘Still watching hotels. No luck yet’—and it bore no signature. Simply the initial ‘N,’ typed in a capital letter.”

“What did you do with the note?”

“I put it back in the wastebasket.”

The Shadow heard Shiloh step across the room. There was a rustling of paper; then the man slowly repeated the message aloud, obviously reading it from the original.

“Who do you think N could be?” asked Theresa. “A detective? Mark mentioned that he had hired some private operatives.”

“You can’t trust anything Lundig says,” replied Shiloh. “The chap looks like a fox. Perhaps he is one. I’ll remember this message, Theresa. Here it goes, back in the wastebasket in case Lundig returns to look for it. If any others come, try to see them; and if Lundig makes phone calls while he’s here, listen in on them if you can.

“It may seem cheap, this eavesdropping. But remember: Lundig would stoop to such a practice; and one has to use similar tactics in dealing with such a fellow. Whoever these persons are, you may be sure they’re working for Lundig— not for us.”

“You mean, Donald, that Lundig would not tell us about the scroll if he should find it?”

“Exactly that, Theresa. Don’t forget: he has a copy of the list and could make a translation of his own.”

“Should we tell Mr. Clavelock?”

“I think so. Not yet, though. If the list were still here, it would be all right to inform Clavelock and let him demand an explanation from Lundig. But without the list as evidence, Lundig would merely deny our charge; and we would have no proof.

“Try to learn the name of the hotel where he is stopping on those nights that he is away from here. When we know that, it will be time to talk to Clavelock.”

THE discussion ended. Theresa and Shiloh came toward the library door.

Coolly, The Shadow eased it shut and let the knob twist into place. He had reached the back of the hall when the two arrived at the door. The Shadow saw them walk toward the front door, where Shiloh bade Theresa good-night.

The Shadow saw some one else, as well. A face peeked from the sliding doors of the reception room.

The Shadow sighted the sickly features of Egbert Doyd.

Seeing that Theresa’s back was turned, the elderly uncle sauntered out into the hall. He was standing by the foot of the stairway when Theresa turned about and returned. The girl thought that he had just come down from the second floor.

“Going out again, to-night, Uncle Egbert?” she inquired with a smile.

“Perhaps, perhaps.” Egbert chuckled as he made repetition. “Yes, I may go for another stroll. It did me good — the walk I had last night. I came in early, though, last night. Earlier than Mark Lundig.”

“Did he go out, uncle? I thought he was in the library all evening.”

“No. He came and rang the doorbell while I was retiring. So he must have been out a while. I came downstairs and admitted him.”

“Where was Wilfred? Why didn’t he answer?”

“I don’t know, Theresa. Perhaps he went out also.”

Chuckling to himself, Egbert ascended the stairs. Other footsteps sounded downward. Wilfred arrived in the hall. Theresa questioned the servant; solemnly, Wilfred replied that he had been in his room the night before.

“I must have been sleeping heavily, Miss Theresa,” he insisted. “I seldom fail to hear the doorbell ring. Probably if Mr. Egbert had not answered it, I would have heard it later. I am sorry, Miss Theresa—”

“That’s all right, Wilfred. Forget the matter.”

THE girl went upstairs. Wilfred continued through the hall; then into the dining room.

The Shadow emerged from the dark recess. He glided to the library and entered. The room was still lighted; The Shadow’s cloaked form made a grotesque silhouette against the wall. Reaching the wastebasket, The Shadow found the crumpled note.

He scanned its poorly typed lines. Evidently the man who had pounded out the brief message was no typist. Some letters were heavy; others light. There was no space between two of the words; but at another spot, the machine had skipped. The note was no more than a torn strip of paper.

Tossing the crumpled message back into the wastebasket, The Shadow started his departure. He paused within the library door, edging partially behind the barrier as Wilfred walked through the hall, going upstairs again.

As soon as the servant’s footsteps creaked on the stairway, The Shadow went out into the hall and moved to the rear passage. He left by the obscure side door that he had entered.

He had not seen Mark Lundig on this visit; nor had he heard manifestations of The Creeper, whose sinister footfalls Theresa had mentioned to Donald Shiloh. But The Shadow had profited by this visit; apparently he had guessed something regarding that note that bore the typed signature N.

SOON afterward, a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. A white hand came beneath the glare. With a pen, it inscribed that short message which The Shadow, like Shiloh, had memorized. A weird laugh rippled in the darkness: a token of The Shadow’s understanding. The mirth was one of whispered mockery, that carried satisfaction rather than foreboding. It ended abruptly as a tiny light glowed from the wall beyond the light.

The Shadow reached for earphones. Gaining them, he whispered. A voice answered:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Report from Marsland. Man answering description of Jerry Kobal is registered at the Hotel Santiago, just off the Bowery. Under the name of John Kane. Marsland covering.”

“The report received. Instructions. Other available agents to cover and await further orders.”

“Instructions received.”

Earphones clicked in the darkness. Again came The Shadow’s mirth, this time with a different tone. The new trail had opened; soon, perhaps, The Shadow would be close upon the man who had gained the missing scroll.

The light clicked off; the black walls of the sanctum throbbed with the fading echoes of The Shadow’s departing laugh.