The Creeper

CHAPTER XVII. THE CREEPER’S TRAIL

IT was three o’clock the next afternoon when Harry Vincent walked into the lobby of the Torrington, the old but well-kept hotel where Montague Rayne had been registered as a guest. Harry had spent yesterday evening in this lobby; but he had not come back this morning. Instead, Cliff Marsland had been deputed to cover the Torrington.

Harry was relieving Cliff; and in so doing, he was acquainted with certain facts that Cliff had forwarded through Burbank. Cliff had inquired for Montague Rayne, to learn that the man had checked out a few days ago. There was a possibility that he might be back.

Cliff had also noticed a hanger-on who had stayed about the lobby all day. Harry was posted to watch the fellow; he spied him the moment that he entered. The man in question was a bulky, dark-faced individual who wore a derby hat cocked over one eye. He was lounging about when Harry entered; apparently the man was watching for some one whom he expected at the Torrington.

Broad but slouchy shoulders; outthrust chin; lips that held the end of a dead cigar; eyes that were deep-sunk and suspicious — such was the impression that Harry gained of the man with the derby.

The fellow was to be watched until further order. So Harry unfolded a newspaper and sat down in a comfortable chair. He began to read, at the same time keeping an artful eye on the chap with the plug hat.

AT the very time when Harry had entered the lobby of the Torrington, a man was making his arrival in Zimmer Funson’s suite at the Hotel Parkview. Serious and wise-faced, this fellow was one of Zimmer’s surviving touts, an ace upon whom he was relying since the recent death of Hal. Zimmer greeted the newcomer with a growl.

“Hello, Jocko,” he said. “You look like you’d wised up to something. Spill it!”

“Jocko” grinned at the bookie. From his pocket he produced a newspaper clipping. He handed it to Zimmer, who noted that it had been torn from the real estate ads. One paragraph had been circled with a pencil. It stated:

“What’s this about?” queried Zimmer. “Doesn’t look like it had anything to do with the guy we’re looking for.”

“Hasn’t it, though?” Jocko chuckled wisely. “Well, wait until I spill the dope, Zimmer. You told me to use my noodle when I snooped around the Torrington. Well, that’s what I’ve been doing. No lobby-watching for me. We knew Rayne was gone from the place. Kerry found that out when he called by telephone.”

“I know all that. Go ahead.”

“All right,” Jocko became graphic. “I’m on my way to the Torrington, see? But instead of going in the lobby, I takes to the back street. I spots a beanery where a bell hop was coming out. I figured the joint is going to be my ticket, maybe.

“In about an hour, out comes a guy from the back door of the Torrington. Looking sore, he was, like he’d been given the bounce. He goes into the beanery and sits at the counter. I ankles in and gets along side of him. It wasn’t long before we was talking. He hands out a squawk. He’d been a bell hop in the Torrington; they’d just handed him his walking papers.

“He pans the hired help, so I asks him about the guests. He begins to pan them, too. Says the crabby old gents always was the worst. I keep pumping him; he remembers some names. One of them, he says, was named Rayne, an old geezer with a cane. Eighty years old.”

Jocko paused. Zimmer growled impatiently. He wanted the rest of the story. Jocko resumed:

“The bell hop says he’d like to have looked in Room 620 — that was Rayne’s room — and some other rooms besides. Old guys, he says, was always leaving things after they’d checked out. This bell hop shows me a pass-key, see? But he’s scared to use it. So I slips him ten bucks; he takes it and gives me about a dozen room numbers.

“I put them all down, to cover the one that counted. That was Room 620. The bell hop slides along to look for another job; I go around front and head through the lobby. Up to Rayne’s room, to take a look around. I see this clipping, sticking out of the telephone book. You get it now, Zimmer? Maybe Rayne’s rented that house—”

Zimmer grabbed up the telephone. He dialed a number that escaped Jocko’s notice. The tout heard the bookie talk. He read the clipping aloud over the wire. His call finished, Zimmer spoke to Jocko.

“That’s all you were needed for,” he told the tout. “But I want the bunch of you on tap to-night. Round up the other fellows and have them up here. I may need a couple of you.”

SHORTLY after Zimmer had made his call to The Creeper, Rick Parrin answered the telephone in his private office. The fake sales promoter listened, and acknowledged his understanding. He hung up and turned to a tall, gloomy-faced man who was seated by the window.

“It was The Creeper, Gus,” confided Rick. “I’m putting you on the job. Get up to the Elite Garage and take out that cigar salesman’s car. You know the one I mean — it has a big box on the back.”

“Where’ll I take it, Rick?” queried Gus.

“To Ridley, Long Island. It’s only a dozen miles out, near the Sound. Fake that you’re on a cigar-selling route; but while you’re there, get a line on a fourteen-room mansion that’s just been rented cheap. Spot the place; bring me back the layout.”

“And learn who’s living there?”

“If you can, without getting anybody suspicious.”

Gus departed. Rick settled back behind his mahogany desk, smiling as his fingers thrummed the glass-topped table.

IT was after four o’clock when Rick received a call from Gus. Rick grunted answers, jotting down facts upon a pad. He concluded by giving brief instructions; his tone was commending.

“Come on in, Gus… Yeah, a swell job! I’ll talk to you when you get here… Sure. Leave the old bus at the Elite Garage. It belongs there.”

Rick hung up. He dialed a number; this telephone was not connected with the office switchboard. A response came. Rick gave the information that he had received from Gus.

“Rayne’s living there, all right… No, nobody with him. Gus heard some people talking in a cigar store… Yeah, they’re wondering about the funny old duck. Saw him go out this morning; he hasn’t been back since… The house? It’s a cinch to find. On Locust Avenue, last corner before Long Island Sound… Yes, the house sits by itself…

“Sure. Gus drove past it twice and studied it carefully. A house with gables… Yes. Two gables, and the one on the right is where Rayne hangs out… That’s what the fellows in the cigar store were wondering about. Why the old gent picked the third floor to live in alone… That’s right. The lights gave them the idea. No lights except in that gable…”

Rick paused. He listened carefully, jotting down new notations, orders direct from The Creeper. When he had finished, Rick delivered a final acknowledgment.

“I get it,” he said. “Leave it to me, chief… Yes, I’ll be there to pick up after the grab… The regular countersign… Yes, I’ll have some fellows there to back me… I see. Good. The follow-up will come later… Great stuff, Chief…”

Rick hung up. He went to the outer office and spoke to one of the regular typists.

“See if you can locate two or three of the salesmen,” he instructed. “Carning first; then two others. Tell them I want to see them.”

His order given, Rick strolled back into the inner office, wearing a wise grin. He was looking forward to a pay-off. Well did he know the speed with which The Creeper could follow up an advantage once it had been gained.

IN the seclusion of a hotel room, another man was at that moment receiving an important call. It was Reggie Spaylor, the amateur sportsman. He had taken residence — for the time being — at an expensive hostelry near Grand Central Station.

“It will be easy, chief,” Reggie was saying over the telephone. His sophisticated smile was proof that he was talking with The Creeper. “You are right. Absolutely! That seems the best way to do it… Yes, I have the cash. Plenty left from that last bundle you sent me… Nick’s telephone number? I have it right here. The new one…

“Dalmatia 4-8673. Yes, that’s his old hide-out… Yes, he can get in touch with those gymnasts of his… It was all attended to, long ago; but I left it to Nick… Quite right; it would not be wise for me to associate with those fellows…

“I understand. The lights will be the zero hour… Persuasion is a good word. It is the exact method that I shall use… I understand. Two gables; the right one will be lighted…”

That call ended. Another of The Creeper’s henchmen had received his instructions. Between the hours of three and five, The Creeper had located Montague Rayne, learned the details of the old man’s new habitat and had arranged a definite campaign for the acquisition of the Latin scroll.

ALL that time, Harry Vincent had been lounging in the lobby of the Torrington. He had seen no one worth watching, except the man with the derby hat; and that fellow had become more and more lethargic.

Five o’clock arrived; it was time for Harry to make a report to Burbank.

Leaving the lobby, Harry entered a near-by cigar store. He put in his call. Burbank, always methodical, showed no expression of disappointment at Harry’s fruitless vigil. The contact man gave instructions, in quiet, steady words.

“Instructions,” he informed. “Return to the Torrington. Go to Room 620. Use key in envelope. Make thorough search. Note everything; but disturb nothing. Then report.”

Leaving the telephone booth, Harry dipped his hand in his pocket, to withdraw an envelope that he had received that morning from Rutledge Mann. Opening the envelope, he found a flat key. He crumpled the envelope, threw it away and pocketed the key.

Still wondering at these unexpected instructions, Harry strolled into the lobby of the Torrington. The derby-hatted man was still about, staring glumly; but he paid no attention to Harry. The Shadow’s agent took an elevator to the sixth floor.

Reaching Room 620, Harry found that his key worked the lock. He entered and closed the door behind him. He made a complete, though rapid search, of every bureau drawer. He raised the mattress and looked beneath. He searched table and closet; he found the telephone book and thumbed through all its pages, standing near the window for more light. His survey produced nothing.

Harry departed. Back at the cigar store, he put in a call to Burbank and detailed his complete procedure.

Burbank ordered him to end his watch at the Torrington, and to call within an hour for new instructions.

Keen disappointment gripped Harry Vincent as he went on his way. Somehow, he knew, The Shadow must have gained that key to Room 620; probably that room was the one that Montague Rayne had formerly occupied. But Harry was troubled because the search had brought nothing. Apparently, it had been a last resort to gain some trace of Montague Rayne. As such a move, it had failed.

SHORTLY after six o’clock, a messenger boy arrived at the old Doyd mansion, to leave an envelope for Mark Lundig. Hardly had the messenger departed before a taxi pulled up in front of the house and Lundig himself stepped out. A wise-faced driver watched his passenger ascend the steps.

Entering the house, Lundig spied Theresa at the foot of the stairs. Lundig had been admitted by Wilfred; but he scarcely noted the servant. All he saw was the envelope that Theresa was holding. He made sharp inquiry:

“Is that for me?”

Theresa nodded.

“Wilfred just received it,” she explained. “He gave it to me; I intended to lay it on your plate at the dinner table.”

“I am not staying for dinner,” snapped Lundig. “I am going back to my hotel. Let me have the envelope.”

The girl gave him the message. Lundig ripped open the envelope; holding a strip of paper so that neither Theresa nor Wilfred could observe it, he read these roughly typewritten words:

Lundig crumpled the strip of paper. He hurried from the house. The cab was still there; Lundig barked an order to the shrewd-faced driver and climbed aboard.

Theresa, back in the mansion, went to the library. Seeing Egbert there, she retraced her course and went up to her own room. She called Donald Shiloh’s apartment. Jeffrey answered. Half a minute later, Shiloh was on the wire.

“Mark Lundig came in hurriedly,” explained the girl. “He snatched a message that a boy had just delivered. He read it and went out. It may have been from N.”

“Probably unimportant,” returned Shiloh. “Was that the only time he was at the house to-day?”

“No,” answered Theresa. “He was here this morning for a short while. But I heard no creeping footsteps.”

“Don’t worry then,” laughed Shiloh. “Suppose I drop over and have dinner with you. Will there be a place for me?”

“Surely,” returned the girl. “You will be most welcome, Donald.”

SEVEN o’clock. A light was burning in The Shadow’s sanctum. Beneath it lay the photostatic copies of the code list that The Shadow had obtained at Clavelock’s. A bulb glimmered on the wall. The Shadow picked up the earphones.

Reports from Burbank. Moe Shrevnitz had picked up Mark Lundig as a fare that morning and had taken him to the Soulette Hotel, near Seventy-second Street. Hawkeye had spotted Lundig leaving there at five-thirty; he had immediately followed prearranged instructions. Moe, in turn, had gained Lundig as a passenger and had taken him to the Doyd mansion; after that, to the Daxler Building, on Thirtieth Street.

Harry Vincent had joined Cliff Marsland. Both had reported that they were following instructions to the letter. Further reports would be forthcoming later. That announcement brought an end to Burbank’s statements.

The Shadow delivered brief instructions. Those finished, he clicked off the bluish light. His laugh was sinister within the sanctum; when its echoes died, naught but silence remained. The Shadow had departed.

The Creeper’s moves had been completed. So had The Shadow’s. Though circumstances might not have indicated it, The Shadow’s purposes were progressing. The master of justice was tightening the net in which he hoped to enmesh the superman of crime.