The Green Box

CHAPTER XII CRIME BREAKS

IT was early the next evening. Dusk had arrived and a light was burning on the writing table in Room 401. Seated in front of the table was a firm-visaged individual dressed in evening clothes. The Shadow was again in the guise of Lamont Cranston.

Two envelopes rested on the table. The Shadow opened each in turn. He read the coded messages and let the papers and envelopes flutter into the wastebasket.

One note was from Harry Vincent. The other was from a second agent who had arrived in Southfield. Cliff Marsland, summoned from his usual habitat, the underworld of New York, was also on the job.

The Shadow arose from the table. In the leisurely fashion that was characteristic of Lamont Cranston, he strolled to the window. A cigarette found its way between his thin lips, and was lighted with a hasty gesture.

The delivery truck was parked across the street in front of Slade Farrow’s store. While The Shadow watched, Dave and Louie appeared. They were carrying a packing case through the broad front door of the shop.

The pair set the big box in the truck. They went back into the store and returned, lugging another case. Again, they made the trip. Once more a heavy packing case. Then both went back and came out on their final trip with a fourth box.

A slight smile formed itself on the lips of Lamont Cranston. To this keen-eyed watcher, the handling of that fourth case was sufficient clew. It was obviously lighter than the others — yet sufficiently heavy for a box filled with clothing.

In the first three trips, Dave and Louie had carted out Farrow’s hidden henchmen. The last trip was the only one which concerned merchandise to be delivered in another town.

The delivery truck pulled away. Loungers near the store paid no attention to it. Once again, Griff’s vigilantes had seen nothing. The Shadow still watched from the window. He saw a young man appear from the front of the hotel and saunter down the street. It was Harry Vincent.

A few moments later, another man slipped into view. This chap was huskier than Harry. He took the same direction. This was Cliff Marsland.

THE SHADOW’S agents were going to their posts. Crime foreboded. The departure of Farrow’s truck was proof of that. Although neither Harry nor Cliff knew its significance, The Shadow had ordered them to time their departure to appointed spots with the moment that Farrow’s truck left the store.

Slade Farrow had added new boldness to his methods. He had made this shipment in open view, scorning the seclusion of the delivery entrance on the rear street. To a great measure, this was a better plan. It had proven its merits through the complete deception of Griff’s watchers.

The Shadow turned and crossed the room. He extinguished the light and went into the hall. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston appeared in the lobby of the hotel. Strolling out to the street, he entered a coupe parked there. It was Harry Vincent’s car. The Shadow had taken it for his own use tonight.

Seated in the car, The Shadow gazed toward the whitened front of the Southfield Bank. He started the coupe, drove down a side street past the marble-faced building, then turned toward the Crucible Club.

Satisfied with conditions in the neighborhood of the bank, Lamont Cranston was on his way to join the elite at the Crucible Club. Arrived at his destination, he alighted and locked the door, after a glance at a small suitcase which lay on the floor of the car.

LAMONT CRANSTON’S arrival was welcomed by three men whom he found in the card room. The trio consisted of Townsend Rowling, Rutherford Blogg, and Hiram Marker. Cards were on the table. Lamont Cranston sat down to a game of bridge with these nabobs of Southfield.

“Where is Norton Granger?” inquired Cranston.

“I don’t know,” replied Marker.

“Up calling on the Legrand girl, I imagine,” asserted Blogg, rather testily.

“I can’t understand that,” declared Marker. “Her father murdered his father.”

“That was never proven,” insisted Rowling, quietly.

“It didn’t need to be,” snorted Marker.

“I don’t agree with you, Hiram,” persisted Rowling. “We all know that Ferris Legrand turned crooked. Yet as law-abiding citizens it is our part to accept the decision of the law. Ferris Legrand was convicted for robbery — not for murder.”

“Have it your way,” asserted Marker. “in either event, I can’t see why Norton Granger should be interested in Mildred Legrand.”

“She was an innocent victim,” declared Rowling, in a pious tone. “The poor girl should not suffer for her father’s misdeeds.”

“Maybe you’re right,” agreed Marks, in a mollified tone. “Well — Southfield has been free from crime since that time.”

“Thanks to Eric Griffel,” commended Blogg.

“Who is Eric Griffel?” queried Cranston, in a casual tone.

“He heads our local athletic club,” stated Rowling. “It is a commendable institution that keeps young men out of mischief. Southfield is a crime-free town because we have a working corps of stalwart vigilantes, headed by a man of high caliber. Everyone knows Griff and all admire him.”

“How did he come to be the recognized leader in crime prevention in the town?”

“He was the man who trapped Ferris Legrand. We were short on police here in Southfield. When Wilbur Granger, our most prominent attorney, was murdered several years ago, Griff led a group of deputies to his home and surprised Ferris Legrand robbing the place. He later trapped Legrand with the stolen goods. Legrand was sentenced for his crime. Griff became an active leader in the law and order movement. I have contributed to his work; so have my friends here.”

“It seems to me,” observed Cranston quietly, “that a larger police force would have been a better plan.”

“Police can be fixed,” returned Rowling. “Griff and his volunteers cannot. They have done remarkable service. Less expensive than a larger force, the Southfield Athletic Club has done double duty. It has curbed crime intent among our younger citizens and has lined up all of them for service in law and order.”

Hiram Marker and Rutherford Blogg nodded approvingly at Townsend Rowling’s words. Conversation lagged for a time, then resumed with a new statement from Hiram Marker.

“Norton Granger swung that deal for Mildred Legrand,” remarked the waterworks owner. “The girl obtained a good price for that store of hers.”

“Yes,” agreed Rowling. “This man Farrow took over the lease which I held. He appears to be doing good business.”

“Too good for Southfield?” inquired Rutherford Blogg, in an anxious tone.

“Not as yet,” replied Rowling. “He is apt, however, to overestimate the possibilities of this territory. If he does, I suppose it will mean another business failure.”

Rowling’s opinion was delivered in a casual tone. The bank owner intended one import to reach Lamont Cranston; the other to carry to his friends. For the statement was double-edged.

BOTH meanings, however, were obvious to the keen mind of The Shadow. He remembered the statements that Norton Granger had made regarding these three men who were rulers of Southfield.

Rowling was trying to discourage Cranston, who was in the city as a potential investor. He was also endeavoring to allay any worries on the part of Blogg and Marker by intimating that Farrow, if successful in business here, would meet with obstacles that would clamp his enterprise.

An hour passed. Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker arose. Both stated that they were due at their respective homes. In Southfield, a city of small size, the suburban districts could be reached very quickly. Although the departing men called cabs, they could have walked home without great effort.

Townsend Rowling remained. A widower, with no children, he lived at the Crucible Club. As he chatted with Lamont Cranston, the bank owner proudly told how he had instituted this club.

“Why don’t you come up here to live?” he queried. “You will find it more pleasant than the hotel.”

“Perhaps I may do so later,” responded Cranston. “For the present, I am staying at the hotel because I have given it as my local address. I am expecting calls from there tonight. I am apt to receive telegrams from New York at any time.”

“Ten thirty,” observed Rowling, glancing at his watch. “Getting rather late for business calls.”

“I think I shall call the hotel,” decided Cranston. “Perhaps they have neglected to forward any messages.”

Rising, Lamont Cranston strolled out into the lobby of the club. He entered a phone booth to apparently make a call. He stepped out and took a chair in the lobby. To all appearances, the line had been busy.

Actually, this had been a pretext to move away from Townsend Rowling. The local bank owner, coming from the card room, had encountered friends — exactly what The Shadow had anticipated. Townsend Rowling had gone his own way, expecting to see Lamont Cranston later.

The Shadow waited. His keen eyes watched the clock above the entrance.

Twenty minutes of eleven.

The bell rang in the phone booth. The doorman saw Lamont Cranston rise to answer it. He supposed that this was the reply to a call put in by the guest.

“Hello.” The greeting came in the voice of Lamont Cranston. “This is the Crucible Club.”

“I want to speak with Mr. Cranston.” It was Cliff Marsland on the wire. “Is he there?”

“Report.” The word came in a whisper from the lips of Lamont Cranston. Its tone was the sinister note of The Shadow’s voice.

“All quiet,” came Cliff’s information, “Hiram Marker came in half an hour ago. It doesn’t look as though this place is the one picked for tonight.”

“Relieve Vincent,” came The Shadow’s order.

“Instructions received,” was Cliff’s reply.

Lamont Cranston’s tall form cast a weird silhouetted shadow upon the floor of the lobby as the New Yorker emerged from the phone booth. Cliff Marsland’s report had been due at half past ten. So had Harry Vincent’s. The Shadow had calculated that one would be sure to come; but not both.

FOR tonight, Cliff and Harry were each watching a strategic spot. The Shadow had decided that one of two places would be picked for crime. Those places were the homes of Rutherford Blogg and Hiram Marker.

Outside of Townsend Rowling, those two were the only men of wealth and importance in Southfield. Their homes were the ones that criminals would pick. Slade Farrow’s trio of assembled crooks had gone out on business. The Shadow had placed watchers at each strategic point.

Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland — after half past ten, one was sure to be safe. That would be the first man to call; and Cliff had telephoned, some minutes later. There was no use waiting for a call from Harry Vincent. His tardiness required prompt investigation.

The Shadow had dispatched Cliff to that job. His own action was to follow. The doorman looked up as Lamont Cranston approached. He heard the New York millionaire speak in a quiet tone.

“I am going back to the hotel,” came Cranston’s words. “Inform Mr. Rowling if he asks for me.”

The clerk nodded as Cranston strolled from the Crucible Club. Cranston unlocked his coupe and entered. His hands opened the suitcase. Black garments appeared as he withdrew them.

Again, this personage who played the part of Lamont Cranston was assuming the sinister garb of The Shadow!