The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER IV THE STRANGER AT EAST POINT

THE persistent ringing of the telephone bell awakened Harry Vincent. Leaning from his bed, Harry lifted the receiver of the instrument and yawned a sleepy “Hello.”

“Mr. Vincent?”

Harry acknowledged the question with an affirmative reply.

“This is the Standard Crucible Co.,” came the slow, lethargic voice ever the wire. “Can you arrange an appointment with our man, by ten o’clock?”

“Certainly,” answered Harry. “I shall be glad to meet him.”

Hanging up the receiver, Harry glanced at his watch and noted that it was nine o’clock. Dressing hurriedly, he left the hotel room and hastened down in an elevator. Entering the grillroom, he ordered breakfast, knowing that he had sufficient time to eat a quick meal.

Staring across the table, Harry could see the passing people in the luxurious lobby of the Metrolite Hotel. The situation to-day recalled to Harry many former adventures that he had undergone since he had made his New York residence in this palatial hostelry.

For that telephone message — which to other ears might have seemed nothing more than a simple business appointment — was a call to action. It meant that Harry Vincent must immediately set forth to do service for The Shadow.

Two words had been peculiarly emphasized across the wire. Those were the words “our man.” Whenever agents of The Shadow communicated with one another, they did so tersely, with emphasized words that carried a special meaning.

To Harry, “our man” meant “R. Mann”; thus signifying that he was to call upon Rutledge Mann, the investment broker who acted as contact agent for The Shadow.

Harry Vincent had done yeoman duty in the service of The Shadow. His career as an agent of The Shadow had begun on one eventful night when Harry, about to throw himself from the parapet of a bridge, had been plucked from suicide by a hand that had stretched from the darkness. Since then, Harry had obeyed the commands of this mysterious rescuer faithfully in every respect.

Never had he encountered The Shadow face to face; but on many occasions, The Shadow had come to aid him when he had fallen into the hands of enemies.

The conclusion of each episode had brought a period of recuperation to Harry Vincent. Living comfortably at the Metrolite Hotel, or vacationing at his home in Michigan, he had merely awaited The Shadow’s bidding to begin new work in the ceaseless struggle against crime.

As Harry started from the hotel toward the Badger Building, where Mann’s office was located, he sensed the objective of this present mission. Usually, The Shadow’s commands came from a clear sky. Often, The Shadow chose to work alone. But on this occasion, Harry had been reading the newspaper accounts concerning the gold robbery aboard the Patagonia.

Those signed articles by Clyde Burke had been a sure intimation that The Shadow was interested in the affair of the stolen millions. Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent had worked together on more than one occasion. With Clyde temporarily incapacitated, it was only logical that Harry should be called upon for duty.

Upon reaching Rutledge Mann’s office, Harry was ushered into an inner room, where he found the investment broker seated at a glass-topped desk. Harry extended a hand in greeting, and took a seat beside the desk.

The two men formed an interesting contrast. Harry Vincent, active agent, was a stalwart young fellow, whose poise showed ability and self-confidence. He was a man built for action, with keen, firm gaze and well-molded features.

Rutledge Mann, passive agent, was older than Harry, and quite lackadaisical in pose. Faultlessly attired, possessed of chubby countenance, he had the blase expression of a person who found life quite uninteresting, and lived in a continuous state of boredom.

Mann had always been a puzzle to Harry Vincent. It was almost impossible to picture him as other than a stuffed-shirt idler, who took life easy, and detested action.

Yet Harry had seen Mann in the power of desperadoes who had threatened him with torture and death if he would not betray The Shadow. Then had Rutledge Mann shown his mettle. Beneath that affected exterior was a determination that had gained Harry Vincent’s complete admiration.

TO-DAY, Rutledge Mann exhibited his usual composure. With no particular haste or emphasis, he drew a few papers from a desk drawer, and dropped them on the table.

One sheet was blank. Mann tore it into pieces, and carelessly dropped the fragments into a wastebasket. Harry knew what the action meant. The blank sheet had been a message from The Shadow, and the writing had disappeared following Rutledge Mann’s perusal.

“This afternoon,” declared Mann, in a complacent tone. “you are to go to a place called East Point. You leave by express at one o’clock, and transfer to a local at East Point Junction. Once you are there, Vincent, you may find it a pleasant place to spend a brief vacation.”

Harry nodded. He understood the inference. He was to go to East Point to investigate, and to remain there until otherwise notified.

“There are no hotels at East Point,” continued Mann. “In fact, there are only a few shacks near the railroad station. A few miles beyond — on the point itself — there are better residences. I doubt that there are more than half a dozen houses, however.

“The air is most beneficial at the extreme end of the point. The scenery is more picturesque at that spot. Furthermore, the few people who live there are apt to prove more interesting. Therefore, East Point itself, and not the tiny settlement at the railroad depot, should be your logical place of residence.”

Again, Harry nodded. He smiled slightly as he reflected upon Mann’s words. The investment broker was telling him — by well-chosen suggestions — that he was to study the inhabitants of East Point at close range. In continuing, Mann made the situation more clear, and indirectly referred to the theme of the gold robbery.

“East Point,” added Mann, “had numerous visitors recently in the persons of government agents. They were searching for a possible spot where a certain boat might have landed. They found East Point quite barren. The promontory and the few neighboring islands are scrubby, sanded tracts of land. Hence, the investigation, while thorough, was short-lived.

“You are simply a visitor to East Point. You are going there because you like little-settled spots that are free from outside disturbance.

“Inasmuch as the present summer residents on the Point must possess similar likes — for otherwise they would hardly be living there — it should not be difficult for you to form acquaintances.”

Thus concluding his discourse, Rutledge Mann settled back in his chair and rested his chin upon his hand. Harry Vincent arose and prepared to leave.

“A good suggestion, Mann,” he said. “I’ll take it. I’m leaving for East Point this afternoon.”

IT was after four o’clock that afternoon when Harry Vincent alighted from the branch local at East Point. He found the vicinity very much as Mann had pictured it. A dilapidated, unpainted depot was the chief building; near by was a small frame structure that answered for a post office. A few small houses clustered near a decadent general store.

This had once been planned as the nucleus for a summer resort; but the distance from New York and other centers of population had worked against it. Harry realized that he would have little opportunity of finding accommodations here, should he fail to find a suitable residence on the Point itself.

The driver of a rickety sedan spied Harry, and hailed him. This man was evidently engaged in the taxi business.

“Going out on the Point, mister?”

Harry nodded and beckoned. The man clambered from his rattletrap and came over to get Harry’s suitcase.

“Thought you might be going to the Point,” he said. “Reckoned there couldn’t be any other place. Who are you going to see out there?”

“No one,” replied Harry, in a laconic tone. “I suppose I can find a place to stay out there.”

“That ain’t so likely,” the man declared. “All private houses on the Point. I can drive you out, though.”

“Maybe that is not necessary,” said Harry, in a disappointed tone. “I did not expect to encounter such a difficulty. Perhaps there is no use in my visiting the Point.”

The words had a prompt effect upon the driver of the improvised cab. He was anxious to gain this customer. He put Harry’s suitcase in the cab, and volunteered new information.

“You come along, mister,” he insisted. “Maybe you can make out when we get there. You’ll like the Point. I got an idea you can get located there.”

Harry entered the rattletrap, and as they headed along a narrow, bumpy road, the driver commenced an explanation of conditions at East Point.

“There ain’t many folks out on the Point,” he said. “People used to come here, but they don’t come no more. Cottages with nobody living in them. People that own them live in New York and places like that. So it’s kind of hard to make a deal with them. Don’t seem to bother whether they rent or not.”

“Then it will be no use for me to go, since none of the places out there are available.”

“We’ll go along,” the driver persisted. “I ain’t figuring on the empty places. Maybe there’s a chance that we can make a deal with a fellow out there.

“You see, there’s only three people living on the point. One is old Professor Sheldon, who comes down here off and on from New York. Then there’s Elbert Cordes — a mean egg, he is. Lives here all the year around. No use talking with either of them. The professor is a nice old duck, but fussy. Cordes is a grouch.”

“Rather a discouraging situation,” commented Harry dryly.

“No,” returned the driver. “There’s another man lives out there. Fellow named Woodruff — an artist. Kind of a goofy bird, he is. Malbray Woodruff — that’s his name. He’s the one we want to see.”

“Why?”

“Because he has a cottage all to himself, and he’s always been talking about friends coming down to see him. But they never do. I reckon likely he might welcome a fellow like you who would be willing to pay something for a place to stay.”

“That’s an idea.”

THEY were reaching the end of the Point. Coming through a scrubby plot of trees, the car swung past a sand dune, and a row of well-separated cottages came into view. Here, ocean and bay were scarcely more than two hundred yards apart.

Beyond the cottages, the Point maintained its narrowness, and formed a curving hook that protected the islet-studded bay.

A mild ocean breeze was blowing puffs of sand, and Harry began to appreciate the desolation of this spot, where the isolated cottages were the only signs of human habitation. They rode past two deserted buildings; then passed a cottage that was in excellent condition. The driver pointed it out to Harry.

“That’s Professor Sheldon’s house,” he explained. “He lives there off and on, and has two men keeping the place. A good cottage — best on the Point. I’ve been in there, and it’s fixed up nice. Now let’s see—”

The driver slowed the car as they approached the next cottage. There was very little choice between it and the one beyond. Both buildings were in fair condition.

“Funny,” observed the driver, “I disremember whether this belongs to Cordes or to Woodruff. Been some time since I’ve been out past the professor’s house. We’ll try this one.”

He honked the horn, and Harry watched the cottage. He saw a sour, harsh face peer sullenly through the window. It was the face of a gray-haired man who seemed to resent this intrusion. Harry spoke to the driver, who looked in the same direction.

“Wrong house,” he said quickly. “That’s Cordes. No use staying around here. I don’t want to talk to that grouch. The next place is Woodruff’s.”

The car shot forward, and pulled up before the last cottage. The driver alighted and went to the door. He knocked and beckoned to Harry, who followed him. There was no answer to the knock. The driver scratched his head.

“Guess Woodruff’s wandering around somewhere—”

His sentence ended abruptly as he spied a man coming across the dunes from the bay. A long-legged, stoop-shouldered individual, the approaching man was hurrying with swift stride.

He was carrying an easel and other items of equipment, and when he neared the waiting pair, he peered inquisitively through large, tortoise-shell spectacles.

“Hello, Mr. Woodruff,” greeted the taxi man. “Just looking for you. Here’s a fellow wants to meet you.”

Harry Vincent stepped forward, and shook hands with the artist after Woodruff had laid down the articles that he was carrying.

“My name is Vincent,” explained Harry. “I’m up from New York, looking for a place to stay at East Point. A friend of mine gave me to understand that it would be easy for me to find lodging; but I learned differently when I arrived.

“This man” — he indicated the taxi driver — “suggested that I talk with you. Now that I am here, I should like to stay — if it can possibly be arranged without inconvenience.”

WOODRUFF nodded thoughtfully, and stared speculatively at Harry. The brief inspection seemed to please him. He shrugged his shoulders, walked forward, and opened the door of the cottage. He invited Harry inside.

The visitor found himself in a plainly furnished living room that was in a state of total disorder. Half-finished sketches and paintings were stacked here and there; tables were littered with pipes and ash trays; books were scrambled in confusion.

“Not much of a place,” commented Woodruff, “but if you want to stay here, you’re welcome. I’m a careless sort of a housekeeper. The rest of the place isn’t so bad. You can have your choice of three bedrooms, all furnished and in order.

“The kitchen is all right — if you’re willing to get your own meals, or dish them up with mine. I’ve got a radio there in the corner, but there’s no entertainment outside of that.”

“You see, I’m after seclusion,” explained Harry. “I want a rest in a quiet spot, and if it becomes monotonous, I’ll do some writing. How much will it cost me to stay here, Woodruff?”

The artist filled a pipe and sat down in a broken easy-chair. He studied Harry thoughtfully, while he lighted his tobacco; then spoke in a methodical tone.

“I like seclusion, Vincent,” he declared, “but I’m so wrapped up in my painting that I’m usually broke. Fact is, right now I’m flat. Put out nearly all the money I had to rent this place. So I’ve been trying to get friends to come up here. But they all say it’s too far.

“Costs me forty dollars a month for the cottage, on a season basis. My proposition has been that any one who wants to go fifty-fifty is all right.”

“Suppose I pay you five dollars a week,” suggested Harry. “Then I can arrange my stay as I wish.”

“That suits me,” acquiesced Woodruff. “It will give me enough money to eat. We can buy our food individually, or go fifty-fifty on that if you prefer.”

Harry motioned to the taxi driver, who was standing at the door. The man went out and brought in the suitcase. Harry paid him a dollar for the fare. As soon as the driver had pulled away, Harry handed a ten-dollar bill to Woodruff.

“Two weeks in advance,” he explained. “I’ll be here that long, anyway. I’m glad to get settled here at East Point. Don’t worry about me in any way. I’d just as soon rough it as not. All I want is a roof.”

The artist grinned and laid his pipe aside.

“Say, Vincent,” he announced, “I’m pleased already to have you here. Been waiting for a month to have some friends show up. But what if they did come? They probably wouldn’t like it here. I’d rather have a chap like you who seems suited to the environment.”

He arose and stalked across the room toward the door of the kitchen.

“It’s after five,” he said. “Suppose we have an early dinner to celebrate your arrival. It’s on me tonight, and I’ll show you a nice bit of cooking, even though I am an artist. Sling your luggage in one of the upstairs rooms, and make yourself at home.”

UPSTAIRS, Harry chose a bedroom that had a window facing the road along which he had come. From this he could plainly observe the other cottages on the Point.

He studied the house in which Elbert Cordes lived — also the handsome cottage which was the home of Professor Sheldon. The empty buildings beyond also came in for Harry’s cursory inspection.

Somehow, Harry Vincent sensed that his sojourn here at East Point might prove intensely interesting. It appeared that there were but three residents at East Point. He had seen one — Elbert Cordes; was located with the second — Malbray Woodruff; and had only to learn something regarding the third.

As this thought occurred to Harry, a large automobile appeared upon the road from the depot. It turned out to be a limousine, which stopped before the first of the three inhabited cottages. A trim man in uniform descended from the chauffeur’s seat, and opened the door. An elderly gentleman with gray hair stepped forth and walked into the cottage, followed by the chauffeur.

Harry strolled downstairs and entered the kitchen where he found Woodruff preparing dinner at the stove. In a matter-of-fact tone, Harry spoke to the artist.

“Just saw some one drive up to one of the other cottages,” Harry remarked. “An old gentleman in a limousine—”

“That’s Professor Kirby Sheldon,” responded Woodruff. “University lecturer. Noted sociologist. Drives up from New York occasionally. A very affable and keen-minded old man. You’ll be glad to meet him. We’ll drop in there tonight.”

Harry Vincent smiled to himself. Things were going well already. If matters were to be learned at East Point, he was properly situated to learn them. It would be easy to watch Woodruff. Tonight, he would gain a line on the professor.

But most important in Harry’s mind was the third man upon this Point. Harry had not forgotten the scowling face at the window of the middle cottage. Instinctively, he knew that when he sent a full report to The Shadow, it must contain definite information regarding the man known as Elbert Cordes.