The Creeper

CHAPTER III. LOST LEGACIES

HAD Clyde Burke gained immediate recognition upon his entry to the Doyd mansion, he might have gleaned some interesting facts prior to the meeting of the heirs. As it was, the liveried servant who admitted him showed suspicion the moment that he learned Clyde was a reporter.

Clyde mentioned Tobias Clavelock by name; that introduction enabled him to stay. But the servant, instead of taking Clyde to the family reception room, decided to put the reporter in an obscure parlor.

There Clyde was forced to sit in solitary state until the servant spoke to Tobias Clavelock.

From the parlor, Clyde could see across a hallway. Beyond, at an angle, were closed doors. They indicated the reception room; and Clyde speculated on what might lie beyond. After a few minutes of wondering, the reporter decided to wait patiently. He felt sure that Clavelock would keep his promise and admit him to the meeting. There was nothing to gain by impatience.

Meanwhile, another man was waiting alone. This was the tuxedoed chap whom The Shadow had seen enter the house. Light-haired, somewhat curious in expression, this visitor was in the reception room, beyond those very doors that Clyde had observed.

He was strolling about, gazing at various objects: an ancient grandfather’s clock had finally intrigued him.

He was facing the corner where the clock stood when a rear door of the room opened suddenly. The young man swung about to face a dark-haired girl whose black mourning attire gave her a singular beauty.

“THERESA!” exclaimed the light-haired man. “Theresa Doyd! I never would have known you!”

The girl advanced with outstretched hand; the young man received her clasp. The girl smiled.

“You have not changed much, Mr. Shiloh,” she remarked. Then, with a winsome smile: “I suppose, now that I am grown up, I can call you Donald?”

“That’s right,” recalled the man, with a pleasant laugh. “I’d forgotten all about that problem of ten years ago. Let me see: you were about twelve years old, weren’t you? And I was twenty-five.”

“Which made you Mr. Shiloh,” smiled the girl. “Because you were grown up and I was not; and since you belonged to another branch of the family, I could not call you Cousin Donald.”

“I remember it. Your grandmother was a stickler for form, wasn’t she?”

“Just like grandfather. Well, Donald, ever since I’ve grown up, I have wanted to meet you again. More than any other member of the family.”

“More than any other?”

“Of course. But that is no compliment, Donald. Wait until you see the other members of the clan who are here already.”

“Some have arrived, Theresa?”

“Yes. Three. Aunt Mehitabel Doyd — grandfather’s sister — arrived just a little while ago. Then there is Uncle Egbert Doyd, who has been living here a month. He is about sixty years old — my father’s brother, you know.”

“You said there were three, Theresa.”

“Yes.” The girl’s face looked troubled. “The other is a second cousin of mine. His name is Mark Lundig. He arrived two days ago.”

“Mark Lundig,” mused Shiloh. “I recall him. An odd sort, Mark. About forty-five, isn’t he? Lundig was living in California, the last I knew.”

“He says he is from Chicago,” remarked Theresa. “But every statement he makes has a note of suspicion to it. Mark Lundig arrived here two days ago, Donald. He claims to have taken a room at some hotel; but he has stayed here for two nights.”

“What is his business, Theresa?”

“He did not say. But his presence has worried me, Donald. That is one reason why I am glad that you have arrived. You will stay here, won’t you?”

“Hardly, Theresa. I have an apartment of my own, you know, here in New York, although I am in town but seldom. I have money of my own; I live in Miami most of the winter, and go north in the summer. But since I have the apartment, and my valet Jeffrey, who drove the car here to-night, I naturally expect to use my own residence. But tell me more about Lundig. Has the fellow acted oddly?”

The girl looked about before replying, apparently to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. Then, in a tense whisper, she spoke.

“LAST night,” she confided, “I heard footsteps. Strange footsteps, Donald — creeping footsteps — that seemed remote. I stole about, trying to locate them. It was impossible. First they seemed to be downstairs; then they were on the second floor—”

“At what hour was this, Theresa?”

“Shortly after midnight. Finally I was sure the footsteps were on the ground floor. I came down here just as they ceased. Then I saw a light in the library. I entered and found Mark Lundig there.”

“Did your arrival surprise him?”

“Yes. Particularly because he was looking through the drawers of the old corner desk. I wondered to find him here in the house; he had spoken about going back to his hotel.”

“What excuse did he offer?”

“He said that he had decided to stay. He had spoken to Wilfred— our one servant — and Wilfred had made up a room for him. So I said nothing, except to bid him good-night.”

“Too bad that I was not here, Theresa. I should have liked to give challenge to the bounder. Unfortunately, Jeffrey and I did not arrive in New York until this morning. But tell me more: did you hear the footsteps later?”

“No. Mark Lundig decided to go upstairs; he walked along with me and went to his room. I listened for a while, but he did not leave.”

“Where was your Uncle Egbert?”

“Asleep, I suppose. He always retires early. Of course, the footsteps could have been his; but Uncle Egbert has been here a long while, and I never heard him prowl about. There was something terrible about those footsteps, Donald! They were creaky, almost ghostly—”

The girl stopped abruptly. The sliding doors from the hallway were coming open. Theresa and Shiloh looked about to see Wilfred bowing from the doorway. The servant’s face was solemn.

“Mr. Clavelock awaits you,” announced Wilfred. “He is in the library, with the others.”

THERESA and Shiloh followed Wilfred through the hall. The servant ushered them into a large rear room, which was lined with books. Then he went back through the hall and brought Clyde Burke from the parlor.

The reporter entered after Theresa Doyd and Donald Shiloh had seated themselves. He was just in time to see Shiloh acknowledging the greetings of others who were present.

Tobias Clavelock, stoop-shouldered and dry-faced, was seated behind a large table. Beside him was a weary, dull-faced fellow — Carning— whom Clyde dismissed at a glance. He knew that this individual was merely some secretary of the lawyer’s. Moreover, Clyde was immediately occupied; for Clavelock was waving a hand in introduction.

“This is Mr. Burke,” announced the old lawyer. “He is a reporter, here by my special permission. These, Mr. Burke, are the Doyd heirs. First, Mr. Egbert Doyd.”

Clyde bowed to a hunched-shouldered, sickly-faced man who was huddled in a large chair. Egbert Doyd looked more than sixty. Illness had apparently sapped his strength, for Clyde gained the impression that the man was an invalid.

“Miss Mehitabel Doyd, sister of the deceased Bigelow Doyd—”

At Clavelock’s words, Clyde bowed to an old lady who was in her eighties. Then he turned to meet two others.

“Miss Theresa Doyd; and Mr. Donald Shiloh—”

Clavelock paused. Theresa had arisen to shake hands with the reporter. Clyde bowed, impressed by the girl’s beauty and her gracious manner. Shiloh had risen also; he followed with a handshake. Clyde was about to sit down when Clavelock added another introduction:

“This is Mr. Mark Lundig, another heir.”

Clyde turned to face a shrewd, sharp-faced man who was sitting on the edge of a chair. He detected a foxlike expression beneath a shock of gray-streaked hair.

Mark Lundig peered through large spectacles, to give the reporter a curt nod. There was suspicion in the man’s gaze. Clyde returned the nod and sat down.

“Ahem!” Clavelock cleared his throat and turned to Carning. “Let me have that sealed envelope from the briefcase. Come, my man, cease fumbling. Find it!”

Carning produced the envelope. Clavelock adjusted a pair of pince-nez spectacles; then spoke again.

“The lists,” he ordered. “Those typewritten lists. There are several copies of them.”

Carning found the lists and laid them on the table. Meanwhile, Clavelock was holding up the envelope.

He waited until Carning produced a shorthand notebook; then, with a grumble at his substitute stenographer’s slowness, the lawyer began to speak.

“ACCORDING to the terms of Bigelow Doyd’s last testament,” announced the old attorney, “the bulk of his estate is to be divided equally among all eligible heirs. This refers to every one present— with the possible exception of Mr. Donald Shiloh, who is a relative of Bigelow Doyd’s first wife. A descendant, you understand, of another branch of the family.

“Nevertheless, I requested Mr. Shiloh to be present. His status is that of a possible heir; he may be awarded a share of the estate. That can be decided later. Our present business is to determine the extent of the estate itself. A matter, I may say, of considerable importance.

“Much of Bigelow Doyd’s wealth lay in his collections of valuable gems and art treasures; together with certain assets which he had stored in some place of safety. Only Bigelow Doyd knew the place where these valuables were stored. Only he knew the extent of his own wealth.”

The lawyer paused, shaking the sealed envelope with his right hand. The observers could see a huge dab of red sealing wax that kept the envelope intact. With his left hand, the lawyer picked up the lists that Carning had given him. There were five of these; Clavelock passed them about the group.

“My word!” exclaimed Egbert Doyd, straightening up to hold a list under a lamp light. “What does this mean, Mr. Clavelock? A whole procession of Latin words, with English words following them.”

“But they are not translations,” put in Mark Lundig, in a sharp tone. “Look: here is the word adsum; after it, the English word ‘jewels.’ Here is bellum; it is followed by the English word ‘inspect.’ And here—”

“That is enough,” interposed Clavelock. “These lists serve as a code book. Bigelow Doyd prepared a Latin inscription; then he formed a statement in English, using exactly the same number of words. He prepared this code for translation of that inscription; but he added a great many words that have no bearing on the matter.

“His purpose was to make the coded lists useless, without the inscription. That is why I am allowing you to examine the lists. They are valueless in themselves; Bigelow Doyd explained that fact when he placed them in my keeping.”

“But what of the Latin inscription?” inquired Theresa. “Is it in the envelope, Mr. Clavelock?”

“We shall see,” returned the lawyer, with a dry smile. “At this meeting, I am privileged to open the envelope and read its contents. Only two men knew that this envelope existed: one was Bigelow Doyd, the other myself. But Bigelow Doyd alone knew its contents.”

Solemnly, Clavelock tore open the envelope. Carning had been taking notes; now the fake secretary leaned over to peer past Clavelock’s shoulder. Seeing that the lawyer was adjusting his glasses, Carning realized that he intended to read the statement from the envelope.

Quickly, Carning shifted back, so artfully that Clyde Burke did not notice his move. That was a point on which Clyde failed; had he been as keen as The Shadow, the reporter would have noticed Carning’s move.

“Humph!” Clavelock’s tone denoted surprise, as his eyes viewed the unfolded paper. “This is no Latin inscription. It gives us information, however. It states that we shall find the scroll within the bottom of the ebony casket. That indicates a search of some sort. Bigelow Doyd said nothing at all to me concerning an ebony casket—”

“I know what it means!” interrupted Theresa, excitedly. “The ebony casket is in grandfather’s old room. Locked in there with other of his personal possessions. I have seen it often; it is a black box, flat, and about one foot square. With the initials ‘B. D.,’ set in silver—”

“You have the key to your grandfather’s room?” inquired Clavelock, with hasty interruption. “So that we can obtain the casket at once?”

“Certainly,” replied Theresa. “The key is in my purse, up in my own room. Shall I bring it here, Mr. Clavelock?”

“Bring it to your grandfather’s room,” decided the lawyer. “We shall complete our meeting there.”

THERESA had risen. She was starting from the room. The others followed, forgetting Clyde Burke. The reporter took up the trail of the procession. He reached the long hallway and saw the group ascending the stairs. He followed, to find himself beside Wilfred. The liveried servant had decided to join the throng.

Wilfred made no comment when he saw Clyde.

The course led to a front room on the second floor. A dim hallway light showed the group waiting for Theresa. The girl appeared a few moments later, carrying a key. She gave it to Clavelock; the lawyer unlocked the closed door of the front room.

Musty blackness was the greeting when the door swung inward. Clavelock grumbled; Theresa found a light switch and pressed it.

Lights blinked on to reveal a huge, old-fashioned room. A massive four-poster bed was the chief item of furniture; opposite it stood an antique table, with a heavy center drawer. Theresa pointed to the table.

“The casket is in the drawer,” announced the girl. “That is where grandfather always kept it. Perhaps you had better open it, Mr. Clavelock.”

The lawyer nodded. He motioned back the persons who were crowding forward, chief among them Mark Lundig, whose long chin was thrust against Clavelock’s shoulder.

Striding to the table, Clavelock tugged at the drawer. It failed to open. As the lawyer looked about, annoyed, a quaver came from old Mehitabel Doyd. The elderly lady had hobbled upstairs, aided by Donald Shiloh.

“There is a hidden spring, Mr. Clavelock,” informed the old lady. “Underneath the table, at the left side. My brother Bigelow once showed me how to operate it.”

Clavelock found the spring and pressed it. The drawer jolted open, halfway. The lawyer seized it and pulled it fully open; then uttered a harsh gasp, that was echoed by those who peered forward with him.

The drawer in the table was entirely empty! There was no sign of the ebony casket mentioned in Bigelow Doyd’s message, the box that Theresa had so carefully described. A gloomy hush followed those startled exclamations as the truth of the loss dawned upon all concerned.

The casket that contained the secret of Bigelow Doyd’s wealth had disappeared. Hidden, stolen, vanished — whatever the case might be, the box which contained the Latin scroll was gone!