The Creeper

CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW’S TRAIL

AT half-past four that afternoon, a young man entered an old office building on Forty-ninth Street. He noted the names on the index boards and checked one that bore the legend: “Triborough Employment Agency.”

That done, the visitor ascended by elevator to the fourth floor; he found Room 408, office of the employment agency, and entered.

A man swiveled from his desk to greet the newcomer. The visitor nodded, introduced himself as Mr. Vincent and sat down at the side of the desk. With a quiet smile, he stated his purpose.

“I am looking for a butler named Myram,” he stated. “He applied for a position with me; but I did not require his services at the time. Afterward, he wrote me, stating that he was registered with this agency—”

The man at the desk nodded. This was not an unusual request. He opened the drawer of a filing cabinet and looked through the letter “M.” He gave his head a negative shake.

“Not listed,” he stated. “Wait a minute, though; I have some old cards in another drawer. His may be there, Mr. Vincent.”

After a short search, the employment man uttered a pleased exclamation. He brought out a card and showed it to his visitor. Mr. Vincent read the name Jonathan Myram, with the address 813 Roscoe Boulevard.

“Myram lives in the Bronx,” explained the employment man. “He placed his name with us several months ago; then canceled it. Fortunately, I happened to have his old card. He is off our register, Mr. Vincent; therefore, you can communicate with him directly, if you wish. But if you prefer—”

“Thank you,” interposed the visitor, rising. “I have the address. I shall write to Myram and see if he still wishes employment.”

Leaving the Triborough Agency, the young man headed southward. His gait was brisk; his clean-cut face wore a pleased smile. For to Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, this visit to the employment agency had marked the end of a day’s quest. Harry had gained the result that he wanted.

SHORTLY before five o’clock, Harry Vincent entered an office high in the towering Badger Building, near Times Square. This was the office of Rutledge Mann, an investment broker.

The girl at the desk recognized Harry Vincent and ushered him into Mann’s private office. There Harry found a pleasant, chubby-faced individual, who was seated at a mahogany desk.

“Any luck?” inquired Mann, eagerly, as soon as Harry had closed the door. “I guess that was a foolish question, Vincent. You certainly look as though you had brought some news.”

“I have,” acknowledged Harry. “But I went to twelve places before I landed it. Myram was registered; but later withdrew his card. His address is 813 Roscoe Boulevard, in the Bronx.”

Mann picked up the telephone and put in a call to Burbank. Harry heard him give the information. Mann hung up and swung about in his chair. His face showed a broad grin.

“Wait for instructions,” he stated. “The others will be reporting soon, since it is after five o’clock.”

The telephone bell rang almost while Mann was speaking. The investment broker answered; Harry heard him talk to Clyde Burke, stating that the work was done and adding that Clyde was to call Burbank for new instructions. That call ended, Mann smiled again.

“When I called you this morning, Vincent,” he stated, “the only instructions that I had received were simply that you should look for a man named Myram, formerly a butler.”

Harry nodded. He remembered the terse orders.

“Since then,” continued Mann, “I have learned more about the fellow. Myram had been employed in one place for about twenty years. During the last months of his service, he had become addicted to petty thievery. Naturally, Myram realized that he was in a tough spot.”

“And wanted a good out,” smiled Harry.

“Exactly,” resumed Mann. “So his logical course was to register himself with an employment bureau. If a new opportunity offered, he could take it, with a recommendation from his old employers. Such a course would have covered his thievery.”

“But his new job failed to materialize?”

“Precisely. Myram was discharged on suspicion. He promptly canceled his registration.”

“Because he could no longer hope for a recommendation?”

Mann nodded, smiling. To Harry, the explanation was illuminating. He knew who had guessed the course that Myram had followed. It sounded simple, once Mann had stated the facts; but the original analysis have been a matter of keen reasoning.

The Shadow, knowing of Myram’s dismissal, had figured out the picayune mental process which the ex-butler had used. Harry, like other agents, had been deputed to visit employment bureaus, inquiring for Myram. Harry had at last found one that still had the fellow’s name in its old files.

The telephone bell was ringing. Again, Mann answered. Harry could tell that he was talking to Burbank.

Like Burbank, Mann was a contact agent; occasionally, as to-day, their duties overlapped. His call ended, Mann swung about and spoke.

“Cover the Bronx address,” he stated. “Wait for an opportunity to inquire. Then ask concerning Myram; also” — Mann’s tone became emphatic — “ask concerning any other persons who may have asked about the fellow.”

Harry nodded. He left the office and descended to the street. The quickest way to reach the Bronx was by subway. Harry chose that method, estimating that it would take him fully forty minutes to arrive at the address on Roscoe Boulevard.

THIRTY minutes later, a tall, stoop-shouldered man stepped from a taxicab on Roscoe Boulevard. His face was old and wizened; a shaggy mop of white hair edged from beneath his gray felt hat. Spry, despite the fact that he hobbled with a large, thick cane, this old codger took up a quick course to a house that bore the number 813. With spectacles poised on high-bridged nose, with outthrust lower lip, the arrival showed odd eagerness as he hastened toward his chosen destination.

Ascending stone steps, the old visitor pressed the doorbell at 813. Half a minute later, the door opened; a fat-faced woman appeared to stare at the odd visitor. The old man grimaced; then spoke in a high-pitched tone.

“Does Mr. Myram live here?” he questioned.

“He used to,” returned the fat woman. “But he don’t no longer. What did you want to see him about? Employment?”

The old man nodded. The woman shook her head.

“He don’t want none,” she stated. “He’s got a job, Myram has. Nothin’ doin’, mister. I don’t know where he’s gone to—”

A withered hand extended. Trembling fingers exhibited a ten-dollar bill. The woman paused, shaking her head; then finally she took the money.

“If you don’t mean Myram no harm,” she confided, “I guess I can tell you where he’s livin’ at. You’re a friend of his?”

The old man nodded.

“He’s gone out of here,” said the woman. “Paid me extra not to tell nobody where he’s at. Guess I oughtn’t to tell you, mister. Maybe if I knowed more about you—”

“My name is Montague Rayne,” crackled the old visitor. “I knew Myram long ago. I wish to do him a real service. It would be wise for you to tell me where he lives at present.”

Convinced, the woman whispered an address. The old man nodded as he heard it. The location was in Manhattan, on the East Side.

With a courteous bow, Montague Rayne hobbled down the steps. The fat landlady watched his departure; then closed the front door.

That doubled form was not inconspicuous. Hardly had Montague Rayne reached the sidewalk before another person spied him. Harry Vincent, approaching afoot, stopped short to watch the visitor who was leaving 813. Lamplight showed the high-nosed, sharp-lipped face of the old man. Harry gained as clear an impression as had Clyde Burke, when the reporter had seen the photograph of Rayne in his palmy days.

Harry waited until Rayne reached the corner. Then he crossed the street and ascended the steps.

HARRY had taken it for granted that Montague Rayne had gone on his way; but Harry was wrong.

Stopped just past the corner, the old man was peering back along the street. A cackled laugh came from his withered lips as he saw Harry go up to the door of 813.

Leaning on his cane, the keen-eyed hobbler started on his way. He stopped again as a taxicab whisked past. He noted the face of the driver, a shrewd-visaged fellow who appeared to have some purpose in coming to this district. Watching, crouched above his cane, the observer saw the cab pull up across the street from the house that bore the number 813.

Again, keen eyes had spied an agent of The Shadow. The driver of that taxi was Moe Shrevnitz, a hackie who worked in The Shadow’s service. Moe’s independent cab was actually owned by The Shadow; like Harry Vincent, Moe had been ordered to cover this location. Harry had thought that Montague Rayne was gone; Moe had not even seen the stooped form of the old man. Both agents had given themselves away.

Hobbling rapidly, the wizened-faced observer was making for the subway. Harry Vincent had chosen that mode of transportation to beat Moe Shrevnitz to Roscoe Boulevard. Soon Montague Rayne would be aboard an express, speeding southward, to reach the East Side minutes ahead of these men who had arrived at Myram’s old abode.

BUT meanwhile, Harry Vincent had rung the doorbell of the house. The fat-faced woman opened the barrier, to stare suspiciously at this new visitor. Harry doffed his hat and delivered a pleasant smile.

“Does Mr. Myram live here?” he inquired.

“Don’t know nothin’ about him,” retorted the woman. “The name don’t sound familiar, mister.”

“That’s odd,” remarked Harry. “The employment agency told me that—”

“Myram don’t want no employment,” interrupted the landlady. “He’s gotten a job, he has.”

“Then he did live here?”

“Yes. But he don’t no longer. I ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’ about him.”

“I see. The old gentleman paid you not to talk.”

The shot hit home. The woman became confused. Harry calmly drew a wallet from his pocket.

“How much did he give you?” inquired The Shadow’s agent.

“He give me ten bucks,” admitted the landlady. “But that ain’t the whole of it, mister—”

“Here’s another ten spot,” interposed Harry. “I’m covering his bet. Who was he? What did you tell him?”

The woman pondered; then accepted the money with a shrug of her shoulders. Her attitude indicated that she thought Harry as reliable as the visitor who had preceded him. Mechanically, she gave Myram’s new address; then added further information.

“The old gent told me his name,” she stated. “Said it was Montague Rayne. Said he used to know Myram; that’s why I talked to him. You look honest, young man; that’s why I’m tellin’ you the same.”

“Thanks.”

HARRY smiled and descended the steps. Again the door closed.

Harry signaled to Moe; then strolled down the street and put in a call to Burbank. He explained all that had happened; Burbank gave prompt instructions. Harry was to remain on duty, watching for any further visitors; Moe was to drive back to Manhattan and cover the East Side address.

Harry left the store. He reached Moe’s cab. He gave the taximan the news; Moe shoved the cab into gear and sped away. Harry found a secluded spot across the street from 813 and went on watch.

He felt keen disappointment because he had not arrived ahead of Montague Rayne; at the same time, Harry was convinced that he had done the most that he could under the circumstances.

He was positive, for one thing, that no one had come here ahead of the elderly visitor. Whoever else might be in the game, that person had not gained the trail. Harry had never heard of The Creeper; nevertheless, his guess was correct. Only The Shadow had used the proper method of tracing Myram through a consultation of employment agencies.

The sudden advent of Montague Rayne had been produced by other circumstances. Harry recognized that much, even though he could not guess the causes that had led to the old visitor’s arrival. To offset that, however, Harry was sure that his own prompt report would serve The Shadow. Even if Montague Rayne had chosen to visit Myram’s new abode, The Shadow — if contacted immediately by Burbank — could be there as soon.

So Harry reasoned; and with that thought, he gained ease of mind as he settled for his lonely vigil. To Harry, a quick quest had brought prompt solution. Whatever The Shadow’s purpose in seeking Myram, the result would soon be gained. So Harry believed; and with good cause.

To-day, however, Harry’s guess was wrong. Not through poor reasoning, for The Shadow had actually gained the results he wanted, despite the surprising entry of Montague Rayne. The Shadow’s only dangerous adversary was The Creeper; and, for the present, The Shadow was far ahead of his unsuspected foe.

Chance, alone, was to balk The Shadow. Chance that was already in the making; chance that was due to move with surprising swiftness, to change the trail before the cloaked master could gain success. That chance which was to stay The Shadow would work double harm. For where The Shadow lost, The Creeper would gain!