The Creeper

CHAPTER IV. THE SEARCH BEGINS

HALF an hour had passed. Old Tobias Clavelock, solemn and keen-eyed, was seated behind the big table in the downstairs library. Acting as presiding officer of a new meeting, he had threshed out details concerning the missing ebony casket.

“We have heard two theories,” announced the lawyer, while Carning, seated beside him, proceeded to take down notes in shorthand. “The first, advanced by Miss Mehitabel Doyd, concerns a man named Montague Rayne. As I understand it, Montague Rayne was once the friend and confidant of Bigelow Doyd.”

“He was,” quavered old Miss Mehitabel. “Montague and Bigelow were great friends in their younger days. Dashing young rascals they were, fifty years ago. But Montague was a scoundrel — a deceiver. I learned that to my sorrow, after he jilted me and left me broken-hearted, only a week before the day we were to be married.”

“Fifty years ago,” remarked Clavelock. “That is a long while. Where has Montague Rayne been since then?”

“He went abroad,” explained Egbert Doyd, in a tired tone. “He and Bigelow corresponded for some time. I believe that Bigelow received a letter from Rayne as recently as ten years ago. Or maybe fifteen.”

“What do you think, then, Egbert?” demanded Clavelock. “Could Montague Rayne have known of this box? Could he have come here to steal it?”

“Hardly,” returned Egbert, wearily. “My word! The old codger should have been dead by this time! Still, he may be alive, and spry enough to be plotting mischief—”

“He was a rogue,” put in old Miss Mehitabel. “Mark my words! The man was a deceiving Lothario. Very cunning, very crafty. He knew too much of Bigelow’s business.”

“But that was years ago,” reminded Clavelock. “Ah, what is this?” He received a picture that the old lady passed to him; then smiled and passed it around the group. “Here is the rogue himself — Montague Rayne, in his prime.”

The old-fashioned portrait reached Clyde Burke. It showed a long-faced man of distinguished appearance, with prominent, beakish nose and outthrust lower lip. Shocky hair and long sideburns completed the picture.

“Montague gained a post with a foreign legation,” remarked old Miss Mehitabel. “That was why he journeyed abroad. Later, he married a prominent Englishwoman. She died afterward; Montague went to India and—”

Clavelock was gesturing for silence. Clyde passed the photograph to the old lady; as he did so, he was making note of what she had said. It would be possible, Clyde knew, to dig up some other photograph of Montague Rayne. One that would probably be of much later date than the one which Mehitabel Doyd still cherished.

“OUR other theory,” declared Clavelock, “concerns a servant who was dismissed from this household shortly after the death of Bigelow Doyd. I refer to Myram, the butler. You mentioned his name, Theresa. Do you believe that Myram could have been the thief?”

“I do,” replied the girl. “Absolutely, Mr. Clavelock! I know that grandfather missed many articles that he had about the house — pieces of odd jewelry and souvenirs that he had put away. But grandfather was too ill to search for them. I suspected Myram, and after grandfather’s death I was sure that the man was guilty. So did Wilfred.”

The servant nodded solemnly from the corner. Clavelock paused; then pushed the quiz:

“You questioned Myram?”

“I discharged him,” replied Theresa. “After all grandfather had no rare possessions here in the house. Once he was dead, those trifling curios of his seemed of but little value. Myram had been in grandfather’s service for nearly twenty years. He had been faithful once.”

“I understand,” nodded Clavelock. “Apparently, then, Myram stole the ebony casket along with other trinkets. He must have known the secret of the table drawer; it is unlikely, though, that he knew that the casket contained a hidden scroll. What has become of Myram? Do you know, Theresa?”

“I have no idea.”

As Theresa shook her head. Miss Mehitabel began a protest, again asserting that Montague Rayne must be the thief. This time it was Egbert who interrupted. The sickly faced man spoke in an annoyed tone.

“Come, come, Mehitabel!” he interjected. “Your statement is preposterous! I am inclined to agree with Theresa. Myram is the man who probably stole the ebony casket. Dash it! I never did like that sly-faced butler.”

“We shall find Myram,” decided Clavelock. “I shall inform the police that we want the man for theft. I shall also start a careful quest for the ebony casket, in case Myram has disposed of it.”

“Why employ the police?” The querulous question came from Mark Lundig, who was glaring through his spectacles. “This is a matter for private investigation. We should employ detectives of our own.”

“I prefer the police,” returned Clavelock. “My decision is final.”

“Not so far as I am concerned,” insisted Lundig. “I shall hire detectives myself. Competent operatives. What is more” — he rose and wagged his finger, a gleam on his foxlike face — “what is more, I shall also consider Montague Rayne as a possible factor in this case. Perhaps Rayne visited here within the past dozen years. Perhaps he knew Myram and conspired with the fellow.”

“One moment, Mark.” Donald Shiloh had arisen. “Do you realize that you may be interfering with Mr. Clavelock’s plans? That it is not your part to handle this affair?”

“Who are you to object?” sneered Lundig. “Bah! You are not even a legal heir. Your status is still doubtful, Shiloh. You are an upstart—”

SHILOH’S fists clenched instinctively. Theresa gripped his arm; Shiloh subsided. Dropping back into his chair, he watched Lundig leave the room.

“Never mind him, Donald,” whispered Theresa. “He always was a trouble-maker. Mr. Clavelock can handle him.”

Clavelock was smiling dryly as Theresa and Shiloh turned to view him. Carning had jotted down Lundig’s words along with his other notes. Clavelock nodded approvingly.

“Let Mark Lundig do as he pleases,” decided the lawyer. “He has probably gone to telephone some detective agency. If he wants to waste money on such incompetent investigators, he is welcome to do so.

“I shall employ the law to locate Myram. If we find the fellow, he will willingly part with the casket — or tell us what has become of it — if we agree to drop the charges against him. Come, Carning, gather us those five lists and let me have them.”

Carning finished notations and picked up the lists, which people had dropped on the table. He began to count them, while Clavelock watched. Carning looked puzzled.

“There are only four lists here, sir,” he informed. “Are you sure that there were five?”

“I thought there were five.” Clavelock looked around as he replied. Then, with a shake of his head, he added: “Perhaps I was wrong. If Batesly were here, he would know; for he copied them. But it does not matter. The lists are useless without the scroll. Come, Carning, put away the four lists. We are going to my home; you can type your notes on the machine that I have there.”

While Carning was packing up, Clavelock turned to Clyde Burke and nodded that he wanted the reporter to come with him. A few minutes later, the trio departed, leaving Egbert Doyd and Miss Mehitabel drowsing in their chairs. Mark Lundig had not returned. Donald Shiloh and Theresa Doyd accompanied Clavelock to the door; there, Shiloh bade the girl good-night.

Clyde Burke overheard their brief conversation. It was terse — a question from Shiloh regarding Lundig; Theresa’s response that she did not mind the man being in the house, as long as Wilfred was there.

Clyde followed Clavelock and Carning down the steps. Shiloh joined them, chatted for a moment, then hailed a cab and departed. He had not kept his coupe waiting while he had been at the meeting in the old mansion.

Clavelock ordered Carning to hail a cab. While Carning was doing so, the lawyer spoke to Clyde Burke.

He offered to take the reporter in the taxi as far as Times Square; then he added an admonition:

“No word about this in the newspapers, Burke. Remember, I allowed you to be present on condition that you would print only whatever I permit—”

“I understand,” interposed Clyde. “All I ask is that you keep me posted about the casket. It will be a fine story when you find it.”

“Keep in touch with me, Burke. You will be the only reporter to know of this matter.”

Clyde nodded his thanks. A cab was arriving; he boarded it with Clavelock and Carning. At Times Square, the reporter dropped off. Instead of heading for the Classic office, he made for his own lodgings.

For Clyde Burke had work to do to-night — a long report to prepare for The Shadow. To-morrow, he would have some early business looking through old files at the Classic.

IT was nine o’clock the next morning when Rick Parrin looked up from his desk to greet a visitor. The man who had entered the private office was Carning. Rick motioned for the fellow to close the door; that done, he motioned Carning to the seat by the window.

Carning handed Rick a sheaf of typewritten papers. The fake sales manager began to read them in detail, chewing at the end of a cigar that he was smoking. It was a full fifteen minutes before he finished his perusal. Then he made comment.

“Looks like you’ve bagged something, Carning!” chuckled Rick. “This will suit The Creeper great. I’ve got a hunch that he was hoping for something like this. With that estate tied up because of old Bigelow Doyd’s foolishness, The Creeper will have a chance to beat the heirs to the swag.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Carning. “But the trouble will be finding that bloke Myram. How’s The Creeper going to do it, Rick?”

“He’ll manage. Give him time. Just one guy to look for; it won’t take long.”

“What about this bird Montague Rayne?”

Rick snorted.

“Eighty years plus,” he remarked. “That’s how old the guy would be if he’s still alive. Say, that old lady Mehitabel probably thinks they’re still building the Brooklyn Bridge. She and Uncle Egbert.”

“He’s not such an old fossil, Rick. Kind of a sappy bird, though. Looked sort of sick last night. But listen, Rick, there’s one thing bothering me; I put it in my notes — didn’t you see it?”

“What was that?”

“About those lists. There were five of them to begin with. But only four at the finish. Clavelock forgot about it; but I didn’t. Somebody snagged one of them.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. It might have been anybody, except this young fellow Shiloh. He was with the girl, Theresa, and he wouldn’t have had a chance. Of course, old Mehitabel is out — and Egbert, too, I guess, because he looked half asleep.”

“Then that leaves only Lundig?”

“Lundig and the servant — the flunky they called Wilfred. But he wasn’t around when Clavelock passed out the lists. Lundig was looking at one of them; he could have smouched it.”

“A wise guy, maybe. With his talk about detectives. Yeah, Carning, I guess Lundig snatched that list. Unless the reporter took it.”

Carning shook his head slowly.

“I don’t think Burke would have taken the chance,” he decided. “He didn’t want to run any risk of getting in bad with Clavelock. Say — I’d have yanked one of those lists myself, if I hadn’t been worried about Clavelock wising up.”

“The Creeper could use one of the lists,” mused Rick. “Well, he’ll get one when he wants it. Out of Clavelock’s safe.”

“It looks like a tough box to crack, that safe. I took a good look at it, Rick. When I was typing those shorthand notes—”

“Don’t worry. When The Creeper has a job, he gets the right guy to do it. It’s just as well the lists are where they are. How long would it take to copy one?”

“An hour, maybe, in longhand. Less on a typewriter.”

“Well, that means one can be taken out and put back afterward. Without Clavelock ever getting wise. All right, Carning — time for you to scram. I don’t spend too long in my sales conferences.”

Rick chuckled as he made the statement. Carning arose while Rick tucked the typewritten sheets into a desk drawer. The two walked out through the outer office; they were chatting about sales promotion when they passed the typists who were working there.

LESS than an hour after Carning’s visit to Rick Parrin, an event occurred elsewhere in Manhattan. A click sounded in a darkened room. A blue light glimmered upon a polished table. White hands came beneath a shaded glow. The Shadow was in his sanctum, the secluded room that he kept as his own headquarters.

A sheaf of papers came from an envelope. The Shadow began to read Clyde Burke’s report. Detail for detail, it corresponded with that which Carning had delivered to Rick Parrin. It told of the vanished ebony casket; it added the factor of the missing list.

Clyde, in his speculation on who might have the list, eliminated Carning, just as Carning had eliminated Clyde. The reporter had taken Carning for a genuine secretary who had come with Tobias Clavelock; and his added point was that Carning had been the one to mention that a list was missing.

Along with Clyde’s report was a photograph which the reporter had found in the newspaper “morgue” at the Classic. It was a picture of Montague Rayne, taken at the time of the consul’s wedding, some forty years ago. The photograph had come from London; with it, Clyde had gleaned brief facts regarding the career of Montague Rayne. Nothing had been heard of Rayne during the past ten years. He had come back from India; reentered the consular service, then retired. His last residence had been a town in Spain.

The Shadow studied the photograph of the high-nosed, long-lipped face; then placed it aside. He began to make notations on a sheet of paper — his written comments concerned the missing butler, Myram.

Finally, The Shadow inked coded notes that he sealed in envelopes: instructions to be forwarded to various agents, Clyde Burke included.

Envelopes sealed, The Shadow delivered a whispered laugh of prophecy. His hand clicked off the light.

The Shadow, not yet knowing of The Creeper’s entry into the game, had followed the course of picking Myram as the first man to find. Similarly, The Creeper, ignorant of The Shadow’s quest, was to learn facts by calling Rick Parrin; and those facts would start The Creeper on the same trail.

While the law was being informed of Myram’s petty thievery, these powerful antagonists would both be moving independently. Their quarry would be a petty thief, Myram, who had unquestionably stolen the ebony casket without realizing its true value.

But where The Creeper would employ many workers in the hunt, The Shadow would use but few.

Despite that fact, The Shadow would hold the advantage. His laugh had betokened that important point.

For The Shadow had analyzed the mental caliber of the sneak-thief Myram, who had posed as an honest servant.

Already The Shadow had devised a plan. He was confident that his method; his instructions to his agents, would enable him to trace the missing Myram before this day had ended.