The Green Box

CHAPTER XIII THE RAID

RUTHERFORD BLOGG’S home was a hedge-surrounded mansion on the outskirts of Southfield. Harry Vincent, watching for events here, had stationed himself within the hedge, at a secluded corner.

He had seen Rutherford Blogg come home in a taxi. Still watching, Harry had glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch to note that the time was approaching half past ten.

It was then that Harry had decided upon a rapid inspection before putting in his call to The Shadow. There was a filling station not far from Blogg’s home. It would serve as the place from which to phone. With this thought in mind, Harry had begun a circuit of the house.

Creeping along through darkness, Harry had reached a sun porch at the side of the building. A trellis-work went upward to the second floor where a lighted room proclaimed Blogg to be present. It was by the shelter of the porch that Harry had stopped to listen.

Someone was on the side lawn. Harry could hear the motion of cautious figures. He could not make out men in the gloom, but from whispers that he caught, he decided that the group must consist of three.

A warning utterance. Motion stopped. It became a waiting game. Seconds ticked by into minutes, while Harry Vincent, crouched by the sun porch, watched the darkness. Three men — somewhere near the house wall — so did Harry speculate. Then came a surprise.

A wiry man leaped from the lawn and landed on Harry with a ferocious plunge. The Shadow’s agent sprawled. Clutching hands grasped his throat. Gasping, Harry slumped helpless. He had no strength to cry out as a handkerchief was jammed between his teeth.

THE man who had made the sudden onslaught knew how to gag a victim. A guarded light flickered above Harry’s eyes as two other men approached. Half-conscious, Harry dimly caught the muffled conversation while his captors pinioned his arms and legs.

“Great work, Hawkeye. You spotted him all right.”

“I could hear him breathin’. That’s why I told you to wait, Skeets, while I snook up on him.”

“What’ll we do with him, Tapper?”

“Leave him here. You know the orders. We’re after the gravy — not out to give a guy the bump.”

“Right. What next?”

“Me for the roof.” It was Hawkeye who whispered. “Lay low and get the signal.”

Craftily, the little crook climbed the trellis-work. He found it strong enough to bear his weight. He knew that it would do for the others also. He reached a flat-topped roof, surrounded by a rail. Hawkeye climbed over and snapped his fingers above the ledge. It was the signal to come on. The others followed.

On the roof, the silent trio could see through the lace curtains of a pair of French windows. They were looking into Rutherford Blogg’s bedroom. The manufacturer was seated in shirt sleeves, going over papers at a table. The watchers saw that the heavy-jowled man was well away from the French windows.

Tapper produced a jimmy. His assumption that the doors were locked was correct. The workmanship that followed was a tribute to Tapper’s skill. Prying noiselessly, the jimmy-artist managed the locks so cleanly that Rutherford Blogg did not notice the noise until Tapper was ready for the final twist.

As the manufacturer sprang to his feet and faced the window, Tapper forgot caution to deliver a final pry. The windows snapped open. As Tapper swung aside, Skeets, his face masked with a blue bandanna, leaped across the threshold brandishing a revolver.

Blogg’s gray face whitened. The manufacturer nearly slumped as he backed toward the wall. Skeets approached him; Hawkeye, also masked, remained just outside the windows, ready to aid Skeets if necessary.

Blogg was completely cowed. Hence Hawkeye made no effort to join Skeets. He stepped aside to allow Tapper to enter. The jimmy-worker had adjusted a handkerchief to hide his features. He strode into the room and grinned as he spied Rutherford Blogg’s portly, quaking form.

Tapper was looking for something. This room was paneled, with wallpaper above. At no spot could Tapper spy a possible opening. This was the cue for Hawkeye’s entrance. The little crook prowled into the room and moved along the wall. As he neared Rutherford Blogg, he chuckled.

The manufacturer, when he had steadied himself with upraised arms, had shifted slightly sidewise. Hawkeye had discerned this move. He thrust out an arm and sent Blogg sprawling into a corner. He rapped his fist against the paneled wainscoting, just behind the spot from which he had shoved the manufacturer.

Cowering under cover of the gun which Skeets held, Blogg saw Tapper approach the place that Hawkeye had indicated. The big man rapped the panel also. He chuckled. He jammed his jimmy against the paneling, and pried. The woodwork yielded.

With the same system that he had used in opening a packing case in Farrow’s basement, Tapper splintered the mahogany and broke it away to reveal the front of a fair-sized safe.

ANOTHER chuckle. Tapper knelt beside the strongbox and began work upon the dial. Rutherford Blogg had evidently counted as much on concealment as on the strength of the safe, for the device was by no means modern.

Tumblers dropped under Tapper’s skillful touch. The door of the safe swung open toward Rutherford Blogg. The manufacturer, turning his bloated gaze in that direction, could not see the actual rifling.

Tapper had produced a bag. He was shoveling the spoils into it while Hawkeye looked on. Cash — bonds and certificates — these were coming into view. Hawkeye pounced upon new stacks of papers and handed them eagerly to Tapper.

The work was quick. Within a few brief minutes, the safe was devoid of contents. Tapper swung the heavy door nearly shut. He picked up the bag and was about to move toward the flat roof when Hawkeye stopped him. The little crook had chosen to lead the way.

On the ground below, Harry Vincent was gasping as he struggled with his bonds. He had managed to roll away from the wall and was lying prone upon the ground. He heard footsteps thudding close by. A flashlight clicked. Harry stared into its lowered glare.

A low exclamation. Harry recognized the voice. It was Cliff Marsland. Sent here by The Shadow, the second agent had discovered the plight of the first. Bringing out a knife, Cliff cut Harry’s gag.

“Look out!” Harry gasped the warning as Cliff was about to loose the ropes. “They’re in the house — three of them — upstairs, Cliff — by the trellis—”

Cliff stared straight up. He heard a sound from above. He leaped quickly away from the wall, dropping the knife as he reached for an automatic. He was just in time. Hawkeye had arrived at the rail.

The quick little crook had heard the sounds below. Revolver in hand, he spied Cliff out upon the lawn. His warning cry came to Tapper and Skeets as they were at the doorway, Tapper carrying the bag, Skeets backing as he covered Blogg’s cringing form.

Cliff Marsland had stepped into too much light. He was on the fringe of the illumination from the second story. Hawkeye, though warned by Slade Farrow to avoid gunfire, had no other choice.

“Through the house!” This was his warning to Tapper and Skeets as he swung the muzzle of his revolver toward Cliff Marsland.

The little crook was beating Cliff to the shot. Revolver barrel upon the rail, he was pressing finger to trigger as he heard Tapper and Skeets scramble through Blogg’s room. Then, with a sudden twist, Hawkeye suddenly flung himself upon the flat roof.

Governed by sudden impulse, the crafty crook had given up his perfect opportunity to shoot down Cliff Marsland. The Shadow’s agent, caught flatfooted, was saved by Hawkeye’s change.

There was an answer. It came with a resounding report from the hedge across the lawn. Almost at the instant of Hawkeye’s drop, the flash burst and a simming bullet skimmed the rail to flatten itself against the wall of the house.

THE SHADOW!

He had arrived.

With perfect marksmanship, he had aimed a long range shot to beat Hawkeye to the finish. Had the little crook remained the fraction of a second longer, he and not Cliff Marsland would have fallen with a bullet in his body.

Hawkeye, gazing toward Cliff and beyond, had caught the movement of the hedge. He had seen neither the gun nor the black-gloved hand that had wielded it. Yet the quiver of the brush had told him of a menace.

Intuitively, the quick crook had dropped from the path of The Shadow’s bullet!

Cliff Marsland opened fire at the rail above. Hawkeye, squirming like a snake, shot through the opening into Blogg’s room. Cliff was delivering the hopeless volley. Hawkeye’s body, flat upon the roof, was too low to be reached from the ground below.

Wriggling sidewise into the room, Hawkeye gained his feet. Rutherford Blogg, inspired by the rattle of the automatic, came plunging upon the wiry crook. Hawkeye’s gun swung up. The crook could have shoved the muzzle into Blogg’s paunch. Instead, he swung past and delivered a backhand blow.

Hawkeye’s fist, tight about the revolver barrel, caught Blogg squarely in the jaw. The weight of the hand added impetus. Blogg floundered to the floor as Hawkeye scrambled off through the house.

Servants were shouting from down stairs. They had heard Tapper and Skeets dash out by that direction, with the swag.

Hawkeye kept on across the second floor. A woman screamed as he dashed through a darkened room. Gaining the open window, Hawkeye shot through. His hands gripped the sill; then loosed their hold. The escaping crook plumped in the soft turf of a flower bed.

A car was starting on the other side of the hedge. The invaders had used good judgment by approaching the house on the side opposite the road where they had left their automobile.

Springing through the hedge, Hawkeye gained the runningboard of a moving touring car and blurted out his words to Skeets, the man at the wheel.

“Get going. Out to the woods. We’re clear. We can meet the truck.”

The car shot off a street to the right. Skeets was steady at the wheel. Tapper was chuckling. Hawkeye, the last of the trio to escape, was puffing from his rapid flight.

BACK on the lawn beside the sun porch, Cliff Marsland was standing in momentary consternation at the confusion which his shots had produced. Cries were coming from the mansion. Lights were flashing on. At any moment, people would be here. Cliff realized the predicament. He was about to leap forward to aid Harry Vincent when a hand gripped his arm.

“To the car.” It was The Shadow’s voice. “Beyond the front hedge.”

Cliff turned and hurried across the lawn. It was The Shadow who moved to Harry’s rescue. He did not pause to release his agent. There was no time for delay. The shrill siren of a police car was sounding from the town. A call for aid had been made.

Gathering Harry like a padded sack, The Shadow swept speedily across the lawn. He reached the hedge and broke through. Cliff Marsland was at the wheel of the coupe. He had started the motor.

Harry’s body plopped beside him. A single word came from the darkness.

“Go!”

The coupe shot away. Cliff took a direction away from town. He drove rapidly for five minutes, then eased the speed as he drew a knife from his pocket and cut Harry’s bonds.

“I’m driving out of town,” remarked Cliff to Harry. “Taking the road to Galport. We can head back later.”

Back by the hedge, The Shadow was waiting. His tall form was invisible in the darkness. His sharp eyes viewed the lighted house. Bright lamps were aglow along the drive. They had been switched on from within.

A police car whirled up to the front. Two men in uniform alighted. Then came new throbs as a trio of roadsters arrived in quick succession. The Shadow saw Eric Griffel and half a dozen men pile out to join the police when they entered the house.

Such was the law in Southfield. The vigilantes, at the heels of the police, provided heavy reinforcements. More cars were coming. Men were flocking out upon the lawn. The Shadow turned. His tall form disappeared in the darkness.

Less than an hour later, a figure stood within the window of Lamont Cranston’s room. The eyes of The Shadow, peering keenly, saw Slade Farrow’s delivery truck come coasting along the main street, turn a corner and swing to reach the delivery entrance at the back of the store. Piled boxes showed in the rear of the truck.

A soft laugh came from hidden lips. Griff and his men had not returned from the scene of the crime. They were still looking for raiders who had escaped.

Meanwhile, the swag had come to its destination. The Shadow knew where he could find it when he so desired. Raiders with their spoils had come back to roost in Slade Farrow’s store room.