The Creeper

CHAPTER XXII. AN OLD FRIEND

“BEFORE you talk further, Lundig,” remarked Shiloh, with a confident smile, “I shall detail the circumstances that brought about my fortunate arrival. That’s right, Jeffrey” — he nodded approvingly, as the valet covered Norris and Woodling with their own guns — “keep those scoundrels where they belong.

“As I was saying, good fortune favored me. Good fortune and Wilfred. It appears, Theresa, that after I left the house, Mark Lundig arrived and left; then you started out.”

The girl nodded.

“Next,” laughed Shiloh, “Egbert left quite suddenly. Wilfred happened to hear him talking over the telephone. He heard Egbert mention this address. Wilfred knew that this house belonged to the estate, so he called Mr. Clavelock. Receiving no answer, he called me. He tried three times before I arrived home; when I heard what had happened, I came here at once, bringing Jeffrey.”

“Egbert called me,” put in Clavelock. “We both wondered what had happened, so we came here together.”

“And found the treasure.” Shiloh nodded approvingly, as he looked in from the doorway. “Apparently, you were a bit put out over the fact, Lundig.”

Mark Lundig glowered as he met Shiloh’s stare. Then, in an argumentative tone, he inquired:

“Do you mind hearing what I know about it?”

“We should be glad to hear your story,” returned Shiloh. “First, however, you might introduce these playmates of yours who like to handle revolvers. What are they? Thugs?”

“They’re detectives,” answered Lundig. “Norris and Woodling. I hired them to search for the missing scroll. I used to call them from the house; once in a while, Norris sent me messages there.”

“Signed with the letter N?” queried Shiloh.

“Yes,” returned Lundig. “They were trying to locate Montague Rayne. I thought he might be in the game.

They found that he had been in New York — that he had been living at the Torrington. But that was all they learned.”

Lundig paused. He licked his lips and looked about at the others. Then he spoke again; it was apparent that he hoped to make his statement convincing.

“SOMETHING odd occurred a few days ago,” Lundig stated. “I left my hotel, the Soulette, and came to your house, Egbert. A message was there for me — Theresa had it in an envelope — and it appeared to be from Norris. He wanted to see me in an office at the Daxler Building. I went there.

“Instead of Norris, I found two men — young men whose names I cannot divulge; but they spoke of a personage called The Shadow. Some one whom they served. They told me that they knew where the Doyd treasures were located; but they wanted some place to which the wealth could be transferred. I thought of this house; I remembered that it was empty and belonged to the Doyd estate.

“They took me to the old Criterion Trust building. We went downstairs and opened the vault. These men knew the combination. Inside were boxes and chests, some quite heavy. We brought them to the street and loaded them on a truck that these men had provided. The treasure was unloaded here; we placed it as you now see it.”

“The old Criterion Trust building,” ejaculated Clavelock. “Certainly! That building belongs to the Doyd estate. It was to be kept as it was until after all legacies were settled. That was mentioned in Bigelow Doyd’s instructions concerning real estate holdings.”

“I asked if I could bring Norris and Woodling here,” resumed Lundig. “Both were trustworthy. The men agreed. They kept guard outside, while I stationed my detectives in here. I was to wait until later, before I revealed where the treasure lay; but, foolishly, I disobeyed instructions.”

Lundig turned solemnly to Theresa.

“You doubted my honesty,” he told the girl. “I wanted you to know that I was straight. I wanted to bring you here to let you see the treasure in advance, and I unwisely used a subterfuge to get you here. I knew you would come, if you thought Shiloh would be here. That is why I made my pretext.

“I was glad when Egbert and Mr. Clavelock arrived. I waved the outside watchers away, thinking that all was well. But when my purposes were misunderstood, Norris and Woodling naturally supported me. That is my whole story.”

“A poor one,” gibed Shiloh, still covering Lundig with the revolver. “A weak alibi, Lundig; all this hokum about The Shadow. Who is he? Where is he?”

“That’s not fair, Donald!” exclaimed Theresa, suddenly. “Mark has not said anything that sounds untrue. Only — only—”

She looked about. Clavelock and Egbert were commending Lundig. They believed his story. The girl saw the smile of friendliness that had come on Lundig’s face. She turned to Shiloh.

“What about The Creeper?” she demanded. “Mark could not have been The Creeper—”

“Lundig stole one of your code lists, Clavelock,” accused Shiloh, suddenly.

“I am admitting it,” returned Lundig. “Another piece of folly. I thought I might decipher something from it. To help every one concerned—”

Lundig was producing the list; Clavelock was nodding as he received it. Theresa stared suddenly as she saw a venomous glare appear on Shiloh’s face. Intuitively, the girl cried out:

“Donald! You — you were The Creeper! You were the one who wanted to betray us—”

A FIERCE snarl was Shiloh’s interruption. Furiously, the revealed crook brandished his revolver. Jeffrey leveled the guns that he held; from the valet’s pocket, Shiloh produced a second gun, using his free hand.

Lawyer — heirs — detectives; all were covered as Shiloh growled threats from the doorway. Jeffrey was within the room, ready to support his evil master. Shiloh mouthed epithets; then became coherent.

“The Creeper!” he sneered. “You guessed it at last! I tricked all of you! I came to the old house the night before the first meeting. Theresa heard me creeping about — that is the ruse I have used to hide my exact position — and she thought that it was Mark Lundig. That was a good beginning.

“Like a fool, Theresa, you helped me all along; whenever I used that side door to enter and leave, you told me afterward that you had heard The Creeper. That was not all. You knew that Lundig had taken a code list. You told me about it; I crept in one time and stayed long enough to copy it.”

Theresa remembered that day when she had heard the footsteps creep at six o’clock; again at seven.

Mark Lundig had stated later that he had been in his room. He had spoken the truth. That was when Shiloh had copied the list while it was still in the library.

“You showed me Lundig’s message from Norris,” resumed Shiloh. “I guessed that the boob was hunting for Rayne. I told you to watch him; but I did the same myself. That evening when Lundig came to call Norris, I was outside the house. I entered the side door and listened to his telephone call.

“He left, and so did I. You called me, and Jeffrey answered. Jeffrey was smart enough to pretend that I was at the apartment. He clicked his dial and cut off the call. I was smart, too; I called Jeffrey from a pay station; learned that you had phoned and called you back.”

THERESA gasped. She remembered that interrupted call; she had thought it was Lundig, dialing again from below. She recalled also that she had not heard creeping follow the interruption.

What was more — after Shiloh had called her, he had come over to the house in only a dozen minutes, while it had taken him twenty the time before. He had slipped on that point, Shiloh had, but Theresa had never realized it.

Donald Shiloh — The Creeper. Theresa could hardly have believed it, as she studied the light-haired man’s handsome countenance. But the look of evil that appeared upon that visage changed all the girl’s former admiration to utter contempt for this man who was openly bragging of his crime.

“I didn’t finish Myram,” sneered Shiloh. “But I landed others. Dopey got his. Jerry probably did, too, after Slugger was bumped. Those names don’t mean much to you; but here’s one that does. Montague Rayne! I located the old bird, thanks to you, Theresa. I didn’t hear all of Lundig’s call that day I listened; it was you who told me that Rayne was at the Torrington.

“Reggie Spaylor bumped Rayne for me; out at Ridley, Long Island. I gained the scroll; I deciphered it to-night. I sent my men to the old bank. They won’t find the swag there — because I’ve got it here. And there’s a rub-out due here; Jeffrey and I will take care of it. There’s not much chance of the shots being heard when we chop down the pack of you.

“Fools, the whole lot! If you had put facts together, you might have guessed I was The Creeper. But no one guessed that; not even The—”

Shiloh stopped. His head swung toward the front door, which he alone could see. He had heard a startling sound; seeing what followed it, he retreated instinctively across the hall, toward the stairs. His hands sank as if carried down by heavy weights; although he still gripped his revolvers, he could not use them. He was covered by a brace of automatics.

Involuntarily, Shiloh’s lips phrased the name that he had interrupted; but his tone was no longer one of derision. The Creeper’s gasp showed awe as he pronounced:

“The Shadow!”

A CLOAKED figure had swished inward, clear to the wide-arched doorway. The Shadow, weird in his flowing cloak, was covering Shiloh with one .45; his second weapon swung suddenly toward Jeffrey, just within the library door.

The Creeper’s servant stared; then let his revolvers clatter when his arms came up.

“I knew the part that you were playing, Shiloh.” The Shadow’s sinister tone held mockery. “I, too, was present in the mansion. The choice was between you and Lundig. He proved that he could not have been The Creeper. No criminal would have tossed a crumpled message in a wastebasket, or conversed over an extension telephone.

“I heard you talk, Shiloh. I saw through your excuse for the cut-off telephone call; your rapid drive. I heard your artful effort to pin blame on Mark Lundig. I noted your careful questioning concerning The Creeper’s visits.”

The Shadow’s stature suddenly lessened. A toss of his head sent the slouch hat back toward the door; a shake of his shoulders dropped the inky cloak to the floor. His dwindling figure had doubled. In place of the cloaked intruder was a bent old man, his face a mass of withered wrinkles whereon dried lips were forming a cackly chortle. Donald Shiloh gasped new recognition of identity:

“Montague Rayne!”

The transformation was complete, save for those gloved hands which still gripped leveled automatics.

Except for that feature, The Shadow — in feature, expression and pose — had become Montague Rayne.

Tobias Clavelock and Egbert Doyd stared in bewilderment, wondering if this could actually be the old friend of Bigelow Doyd.

“Montague Rayne is absent,” cackled The Shadow. “Still abroad — deceased, perhaps — but I have passed for him. Through this guise, I attracted the notice of Lundig’s detectives. I left evidence, Shiloh, that I knew would reach you — The Creeper.”

AMAZEMENT reigned. Had agents of The Shadow been present, they, too, would have been astounded. It was plain, at last, how Montague Rayne had slipped in and out their cordon; how he had so easily tabbed Moe Shrevnitz’s cab. This, too, explained how The Shadow had gained a key to Rayne’s old room at the Torrington.

It told why Zimmer Funson’s tout had so easily gained news of Rayne’s new location. The Shadow had left the want-ad clipping where it would be found. He had ordered Harry Vincent into the old room to learn if the important bait had been swallowed.

“I bought the scroll from Jerry Kobal,” croaked The Shadow, with an oldish laugh. “I rescued Kobal from your murderers, Shiloh. I deciphered the scroll with ease; for I had a code list of my own. I sold the scroll — when I needed it no longer — to your tool, Reggie Spaylor.

“He tried to kill me. We fought in darkness; I gained his gun; it was he who was shot dead in the struggle.

I came from the house with the gables, bearing scroll and money. In the darkness, I talked as Reggie Spaylor. I guessed your countersign when I heard it; I responded and passed along the scroll. I departed as Spaylor, in his car.

“Earlier, I had sent a fake note to Lundig, signed with the typewritten letter N. He met my agents, the treasure was brought here, leaving an empty vault — a trap — wherein your full hordes of henchmen were enmeshed to-night—”

A form hurtled forward. Donald Shiloh might have hesitated to spring upon The Shadow. Like Reggie Spaylor, he had gained confidence through continued sight of Montague Rayne’s stooped, shaking form.

With one bounding dive, Shiloh swung past The Shadow’s pointing gun; roaring viciously, he drove his own weapons upward as he came.

The Shadow straightened, whirling — an amazing sight in his character of Montague Rayne. Shiloh twisted; guns roared with spurts of flame. The Shadow had spun away from the wide door. Shiloh’s bullets, whistling wide, ricocheted from the hallway wall. But the jabs of The Shadow’s weapons were thrusts toward The Creeper’s heart.

As with Reggie Spaylor, The Shadow had no other choice. A foe had charged him bent on murder; that foe was a killer who must be stopped. Donald Shiloh, who had threatened the massacre of six helpless victims, ended his rush by sprawling prone upon the threshold of the treasure room.

NORRIS and Woodling had pounced upon Jeffrey, pummeling the valet to the floor. Grabbing the rogue’s own guns, they covered him.

The Shadow, seeing their prompt action, swung toward the front hall. His quavering lips were chuckling a solemn knell in the tone of Montague Rayne. Automatics rested on the floor; gloved hands swept up crimson-lined cloak and dark slouch hat. The black exterior of the cloak enveloped The Shadow’s rising form. His hands had regained their guns.

The tremulous mirth changed with the visible transformation. Hidden lips awoke resounding echoes with the weird crescendo of a mirthless laugh. The cloaked figure faded beyond the corner of the doorway. A puff of breeze came from the opening front door; then silence followed echoes.

Rescued heirs stood amid the treasure that was their legacy. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had done well in their handling of Mark Lundig; his error, not theirs, had brought Donald Shiloh here. But The Shadow had changed that unfortunate event into a final triumph.

Wealth had been restored to its proper owners. Upon the threshold of success lay The Creeper, dead within view of that treasure which his eyes could no longer see.

Donald Shiloh’s run of crime had ended. Self-revealed as The Creeper, he, like his overwhelmed henchmen, had fallen before the prowess of The Shadow.

The law would learn the true facts of crime. Jeffrey, the tool who knew his master’s wiles, would talk. He would tell of the scroll still resting on the writing table in Donald Shiloh’s apartment — that final piece of evidence that all would like to see.

Those who had deserved good fortune had gained it — those heirs of Bigelow Doyd, forever freed from the menace of The Creeper.

Right had won — through The Shadow!