The Dark Death

CHAPTER XI. THE BROKEN TRAIL

LATE that same evening, two persons met at the exclusive Cobalt Club. One was Lamont Cranston, the globe-trotter. The other was a portly gentleman: Titus Thoreau, the banker.

The two shook hands. They were old acquaintances; but it was only occasionally that they happened to meet. Both visited the Cobalt Club regularly when they were in New York; but it was seldom that both were in town at the same time.

This was no chance meeting, however. The Shadow had learned that morning that Thoreau was in New York. In the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had been waiting at the club, anticipating Thoreau’s arrival.

Greetings exchanged, the two sat down in a quiet corner and began to chat. It was not long before the conversation turned to the train that The Shadow wanted. In the quiet tones of Cranston, he chanced a remark:

“Did you see Lord and Lady Atherton on your last trip to London?”

“Why yes,” responded Thoreau. “What made you think of them, Cranston?”

“Something I saw in the newspapers.”

“Regarding Lord Atherton?”

“No. About a chap named Mollin. A chap who once tried to steal Lady Atherton’s pearls.”

“Mollin! He was my butler. That happened at my home, Cranston.”

Cranston’s eyes looked quizzical.

“Absolutely,” asserted Thoreau. “Lady Atherton’s pearls were stolen while she was a guest of Mrs. Thoreau. It happened just at the end of an evening party. People were leaving. We stopped them and called in the police.”

“And the servants?”

“We lined them up also. All in a room together. When the police arrived, we began a search. Mollin had the necklace.”

“Did he try to alibi himself?”

“No. He confessed that he had seen the pearls in Lady Atherton’s room. He said he could not resist the temptation of stealing them. They gave him a light sentence. But from what you say, he must have been in some new trouble.”

“He was murdered last night.”

“By whom?”

“No one knows.”

Thoreau shook his head.

“Poor devil,” he said. “I’m genuinely sorry, Cranston. I don’t think the fellow was a crook at heart. At first I did — on the night of the robbery; but afterward, I changed my mind.”

“You talked with Mollin?”

Thoreau shook his head.

“No,” he declared. “It was an odd chain of circumstances that made me feel kindly toward Mollin. You see, the man had been an excellent servant; and he had come with fine references. One was from a chap named Willington, Cuyler Willington. Mollin had been Willington’s valet.

“It happened that Willington was a guest at that party for Lord and Lady Atherton. The next day, Willington stopped in my office. He was highly apologetic for having given Mollin a reference.

“Then he became indignant. He insisted that I should demand a full prosecution of the fellow. In fact, Willington seemed so vicious in his denunciation that I found myself taking Mollin’s part.”

Lamont Cranston’s features wore a smile as Thoreau paused.

“I asked Willington what he had against Mollin,” resumed the banker. “I wanted facts if I intended to prosecute the man. That stumped Willington. It seemed his indignation was all foam.

“I asked him if Mollin had ever stolen anything from him. Willington said no. Then he recalled that he had once gone out of town for three days, forgetting several thousand dollars that he had left upon his bureau. At his destination he found a wire from Mollin. The servant had found the money and was informing him that it was safe.

“That impressed me, Cranston. I became indignant toward Willington. Fancy it, denouncing a man who had shown such honesty. When Mollin’s case came up in court, I put in a plea for leniency. Willington did not appear; but I cited the instance that he had mentioned. The judge gave Mollin the minimum term. I told Willington about it afterward.”

“What did he say?”

“He seemed pleased. He admitted that he had been unjust in his first denunciation.”

“Willington.” Cranston’s tone was musing. “Where have I met that chap?”

“He lives at the Hotel Royal. A pleasant fellow, Willington. Well, good night, Cranston.”

A FEW minutes after Thoreau had departed. Cranston also left the Cobalt Club. He stepped into a luxurious limousine and gave a destination to the chauffeur. When the car halted, later, on a secluded street, a cloaked figure stepped silently forth.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. His course became untraceable. It finally terminated in the darkness of the sanctum. The bluish light clicked on. Earphones came from the wall beyond the table, brought forth by white long-fingered hands. A tiny bulb gleamed. Then came a quiet voice:

“Burbank speaking.”

The Shadow gave brief instructions. Then he replaced the earphones. The little bulb went out.

Remaining in the sanctum, The Shadow began to open envelopes. Crime reports from agents. This work was The Shadow’s routine.

TWENTY minutes after The Shadow had given his instructions. Harry Vincent appeared in the pretentious lobby of the Hotel Royal. He strolled up to the desk and inquired for Cuyler Willington. He learned that the man had gone out of town. The clerk did not know when he would return.

Harry strolled out to the street. He stood beneath the marquee of the hotel and glanced in the direction of the hack stand. He saw an extended arm waving from a taxicab, and headed for it.

“Get in,” came a whisper. It was Moe Shrevnitz.

The cab started forward. Moe shot quick information back to Harry.

“Take a squint at that beanery across the way,” suggested Moe. “Lamp the mug at the table by the window.”

“I saw him,” declared Harry, as they rolled by.

“Know him?” questioned Moe.

“No,” replied Harry.

“Looks like a dip to me,” stated Moe, as they rolled along an avenue. “I got up here ahead of you. I noticed the guy watching everybody that went into the Hotel Royal. Do you think Hawkeye would know him if we could get him here?”

“Probably. Hawkeye’s over at Slade Farrow’s.”

“I’ll get him after I drop you. Where are you going? To the Metrolite?”

“Yes.”

Moe dropped Harry at the latter’s hotel. The taxi man sped away. He reached the apartment where Slade Farrow lived. He rang the bell and talked to Hawkeye. The little man came down.

On the way back to the Hotel Royal, Moe encountered a heavy traffic jam. It was a full half hour before he reached his destination. A cop waved for him to hurry through.

“Look quick,” said Moe, leaning back to Hawkeye, who was riding as a passenger. “You can spot him if he’s still there. Yeah. There he is — getting up from the table—”

“Shoot over to the curb, quick!” broke in Hawkeye, as he spied the man in the window. “Let me out, Moe. I’ve got to tail that mug!”

Moe responded; another cab shot in front of him. It was fifty feet further on before Moe managed to swing his taxi to a stopping place. Hawkeye bounded from the cab. Moe edged into a cramped parking space and waited.

Ten minutes passed. Hawkeye returned. He climbed into the cab growling.

“Back to Farrow’s,” he said.

“Did you lose the guy?” quizzed Moe, pulling away.

“Yeah,” returned Hawkeye, “Keep an eye out, Moe. That bird isn’t a dip.”

“No? What is he then?”

“The guy we’re looking for.”

“Skeeter Wigan?”

“The same. He was leaving the beanery when we slid by. I couldn’t tag him. He was gone.”

A HALF an hour later, The Shadow received a call in his sanctum. Burbank delivered new reports. Cliff Marsland, stationed in the underworld, had drawn a blank. Harry Vincent had called to state that Cuyler Willington was no longer at the Hotel Royal.

But from both Moe and Hawkeye had come important news. They had spotted the missing Skeeter Wigan, on watch across the street from the Hotel Royal. Burbank’s information ended.

“Reports received,” whispered The Shadow, “Instructions: Moe and Hawkeye to keep watch at the Hotel Royal. Vincent to make another call there tomorrow.”

“Instructions received,” returned Burbank.

Earphones clicked. A soft laugh crept through the sanctum. Sinister mirth, it carried future portent. Trails were broken; yet The Shadow was not perturbed. Broken trails were linking.

From his conversation with Titus Thoreau, The Shadow had gained a key to Congo Mollin’s past. He saw clearly that Congo had been no more than an accomplice in the theft of Lady Atherton’s pearls.

Keenly analytical, The Shadow knew that Cuyler Willington had worked a clever game with Titus Thoreau. Willington had visited the banker to demand harsh measures toward Congo Mollin; then, artfully, Willington had worked matters around until Thoreau had sided with the guilty servant.

It was the type of game that a clever crook would play in order to save an accomplice. Willington had twisted it so that Thoreau became the one to plead for leniency. Congo had taken the rap to protect his chief; and Willington’s name had stayed out of the case.

Because of that analysis, The Shadow had dispatched Harry Vincent, tonight, to see if Willington happened to be at the Hotel Royal. Harry had learned that Willington was gone. To The Shadow, the conclusion was obvious.

It was Cuyler Willington whom machine gunners had been out to get. It was he who had visited Congo Mollin on the night of murder. Once again, Congo had taken the penalty that Willington deserved.

Then Skeeter Wigan had stepped into the picture. Spotted by Moe Shrevnitz, identified by Hawkeye, Skeeter had made a departure from the neighborhood of the Hotel Royal. Skeeter was a missing link in the chain of crime. Cliff and Hawkeye had been taking turns looking for him in the underworld. The man had bobbed up in an unexpected locality.

The Shadow knew that other crooks were seeking Cuyler Willington. He also knew that Skeeter Wigan must be a pawn in the game. With which did Skeeter side: Willington or the others? It did not matter for the present. The answer could come later.

If Skeeter should prove to be a tool of Willington’s, it would mean that he would continue to frequent the neighborhood of the Hotel Royal, during Willington’s absence. Should Skeeter turn out to be one of Willington’s enemies, it stood to reason that he must have been watching the hotel to see if Willington returned. In either event, Skeeter would be back at the beanery where Moe had spotted him.

Through Skeeter, The Shadow could gain a trail to either Willington or the unknown murderers who had killed Congo Mollin. The Shadow had chosen to follow that course. For he knew that this was no ordinary feud between crooks. Moreover, it pointed along a trail which he had already begun.

The Shadow wanted to meet the hidden big shot who had ordered Driller Borson and Gat Lober into their deeds of crime. Whether that big shot should prove to be Cuyler Willington or some hidden crime master, made no difference to The Shadow. Men of murder were to be his prey.

THE light clicked out. Darkness pervaded the sanctum — Stygian darkness chilled by a parting laugh. The Shadow could foresee the future. He knew that crooks were set to meet in deadly encounter. And through Skeeter Wigan, The Shadow would find the path to that meeting.

Tonight, The Shadow had gained a break, thanks to the efficiency of his agents. Breaks, when The Shadow gained them, were the result of forethought and prompt action. The cards had turned in The Shadow’s favor.

Hunter and hunted — one was to be The Shadow’s quarry. Perhaps both. The Shadow had followed trails like this before. He could picture Willington, dodging enemies, ready, perhaps, to turn and give battle.

There was accuracy in The Shadow’s study of the circumstances. Earlier this very evening, it would have been correct in detail. But tonight, unknown even to The Shadow, Cuyler Willington had met and murdered Seth Brophy.

That occurrence had changed all. It was destined to bring The Shadow to the threshold of astounding crime. Soon the master sleuth would be confronted with grim circumstances that would tax his mighty prowess to its limit.

For Cuyler Willington had gained a new and remarkable weapon: one that no criminal had ever possessed before. Hunted by relentless foemen, he owned the Q-ray machine that Seth Brophy had kept in the secret room where he — part designer of the mechanism — lay dead and undiscovered!