The Green Box

CHAPTER XV HAWKEYE MEETS THE SHADOW

HIRAM MARKER was loquacious as he chewed the end of a fat cigar. The bald-headed man of wealth had reverted to the subject of robbery at Rutherford Blogg’s. He was soliloquizing on his friend’s stupidity.

“A house full of servants!” he exclaimed. “Yet they let three men go in there and open a safe like it was a toy bank.”

“The robbers were lucky to escape,” observed Cranston.

“They never should have made a getaway,” decided Marker. “Fancy it — out through the side door and away in a car that was parked on the other side of the hedge.

“Well” — Marker smiled sourly — “it was Blogg’s own fault. Counting on an old-fashioned safe up in his bedroom.”

“I understand that it was hidden behind the paneling.”

“So it was. In the very place where they would be apt to look for it. I don’t blame Blogg for keeping valuables in his house. I do the same. Take a look at my vault over here.”

Marker led the way to the alcove. He pointed out a massive vault door, set in a steel frame. It was locked with heavy cross-bar and adjustment wheel.

“Seventy-five hundred dollars,” boasted Marker. “That’s what I paid for the door alone. The framework is set in concrete. No smart crook is going to open that door. It’s one that used to be in the old bank. I had the vault built to fit the door.”

“Quite formidable,” observed Cranston.

“Rowling has one like it at the bank,” declared Marker. “He uses it for special funds — apart from the big vault that the bank uses. His smaller vault is in the basement. Of course, he has time locks. Now my vault—”

Marker had turned while he was speaking. He was facing the doorway of the room, beyond the spot where Lamont Cranston was standing. The bald-headed man broke off suddenly. His lips moved but gave no utterance.

Cranston turned toward the door. He saw what had caused his host’s consternation.

WITHIN the study were three men, all masked with bandanna handkerchiefs. Two were tall; one was short. All three held revolvers.

Marker’s arms went up as though impelled by a spring. Cranston’s followed at a leisurely speed. The New Yorker’s calmness was unruffled. He eyed the intruders almost casually. As The Shadow, he had seen these men before. Tapper at the right; Hawkeye in the center; Skeets at the left.

“Keep them covered.” Tapper was speaking to Skeets. “Come along” — this to Hawkeye — “while I crack this vault.”

Skeets motioned with his revolver. Hiram Marker, pale and scare-faced, moved away from the vault door. Tapper advanced, with Hawkeye beside him.

Lamont Cranston’s tall form remained motionless. His eyes were focused upon Skeets. The man with the gun did not meet the gaze. He did not realize that those eyes were studying opportunities. A quick spring — all would be up with Skeets. The ex-racketeer did not know that one of those whom he was covering was The Shadow.

Hawkeye turned suddenly. The little crook’s revolver flashed into view. Hawkeye became tense as he noted Cranston’s face. He backed away from the vault.

“Cover old Moneybags,” growled Hawkeye, to Skeets. “I’m takin’ care of this guy. There’s two of ‘em. That means two of us on the job.”

Skeets complied. He had a respect for Hawkeye’s intuition. While Skeets covered Marker, Hawkeye stepped back and kept his gun pointed at Cranston’s tall form. Hawkeye’s gaze was unrelenting.

Some hunch had told the little crook that this calm-faced personage was a menace. Crafty to the utmost, Hawkeye intended to leave no loop-hole for an escape. His finger rested on the trigger of his gun.

Lamont Cranston appeared unperturbed. His first glance told that Hawkeye’s vigil would be a steady one. Cranston’s head turned. His eyes watched Tapper, as though interested in the safe-cracker’s boasted cracksmanship.

Hawkeye had stated that he had once trailed The Shadow. Had he noted the glint in Cranston’s eyes, he might have had a recollection of the past. The firm, chiseled countenance with its aquiline nose was unfamiliar, however, to Hawkeye. He gained no recognition.

Tapper was finding the vault formidable. His growl showed his disapproval. He worked on the combination with smooth, steady fingers; then stepped back and shook his head.

“It’s going to be a job to crack this safe—”

“Yeah?” The interruption came from Hawkeye. The little crook spoke while his eyes remained fixed upon Cranston’s profile. “That ain’t goin’ to be a job. I’ll tell you the way out. Work on Moneybags.”

“That’s an idea,” chuckled Tapper. “Try it, Skeets.”

The ex-racketeer nodded. He jammed the muzzle of his revolver into Marker’s bulging stomach. The fat man winced. Skeets growled as he thrust out his chin.

“Give us the combination,” he ordered. “Come on — spill it!”

Marker hesitated.

“Come on!” rasped Skeets. “There’s hot lead in this gat.”

Marker’s lips moved. Tapper caught their mumble. He chuckled when Marker had finished. Tapper stepped back to the vault. He worked on the combination. He revolved the wheel and raised the bar. The heavy door swung open on its perfect hinges, as smoothly as though made of cardboard.

LAMONT CRANSTON’S eyes were watchful as Tapper produced a bag. He saw stacks of banknotes drop into the sack. He noted that Tapper, though working swiftly, was examining all the swag. A bundle of bonds dropped into the bag; then odd lots of documents. Tapper picked out a small stack of papers encircled by a rubber band. He dropped this bundle into his inside pocket.

Tapper finished the job in a hurry. The vault rifled, he bundled up the bag. Cranston’s eyes were upon Hiram Marker. The bald-headed man’s face was ashen. Skeets had stepped back. His manner was no longer threatening. Tapper’s actions were the cause of Marker’s pallor.

“Take the money!” pleaded Marker. “Take the bonds — but — but you can’t use the rest—”

“We’re taking what we’ve got,” snarled Skeets. “Come on. Let’s scram.”

“Wait a minute,” Hawkeye interrupted. “We’re not goin’ to blow too quick. We don’t want no trouble comin’. Back that fat bozo into the vault.”

Hiram Marker was quaking.

“I’ll suffocate!” he gasped. “You can’t do this! You can’t murder me this way—”

“Don’t go goofy,” snarled Hawkeye, speaking to Marker while he still watched Cranston. “They’ll be here to help you. We’ll see to that. You can tap the combination when they come. We’ve got what we want — that’s all we’ve come for.”

Marker backed into the vault. He dropped to the floor of the little room and sank cowering. He was gasping in anticipation of the closed door.

“You next.”

A thin smile appeared upon Lamont Cranston’s lips as Hawkeye threatened with the gun. Marker’s guest stepped lightly back into the vault. Even then, Hawkeye did not relax his vigilance. He motioned to Tapper to close the door. The big fellow obeyed. It was not until the huge barrier had swung into position that Hawkeye lowered his gun.

“Jam that bar,” ordered Hawkeye. “We can fire a shot when we scram. That will bring somebody in.”

“Yeah?” Skeets objected. “You know what the boss told us about raising a racket.”

“Well, what of it?” retorted Hawkeye. “We’re not goin’ to let those mugs smother. We’ve got plenty of time for a getaway.”

“Call up on the phone,” suggested Tapper, as he pressed against the bar to clamp it into place. “From that store a block down. One of the servants will come to answer it. I’ll give him the combination over the wire.”

“All right,” agreed Hawkeye. “They can hold out that long.”

Tapper began to fume. He could not get the bar to wedge. He had closed the vault door tightly. Yet the mechanism refused to function.

“Can’t jam it—”

“Scram then,” ordered Hawkeye. “I’ll cover from the door. They’ll be scared to move for a while. Get goin’ with that swag. We ain’t got time to fool with a stuck door.”

Tapper picked up the bag. Accompanied by Skeets, the safe-cracker hurried from the study. Hawkeye stood at the door, staring as steadily as he had before. He could picture that calm countenance of Lamont Cranston beyond the barrier of steel.

Half a minute passed. The throb of a motor sounded outside. Hawkeye turned and dashed away. Twenty seconds later, gears ground as the waiting car started.

MORE minutes ticked past. The vault door swung open. Lamont Cranston’s tall form stepped into the study. The millionaire’s lips wore a smile as his eyes turned toward the huddled form of Hiram Marker.

“Come on,” suggested Cranston calmly. “We are free.”

Marker scrambled to his feet. He staggered into the study. He stared at Cranston.

“Who let us out?” gasped Marker.

“I did,” was Cranston’s quiet reply. “An excellent vault you have here, Marker. I took your word for it.” He stooped and picked up a paper match that lay at the bottom of the framework. “I dropped this from my pocket while the door was closing. I think a pencil shaving would have done as well. The slightest obstruction will keep a vault door from closing tight enough to lock it.”

Hiram Marker stared dumfounded at Lamont Cranston’s casual explanation. Then, suddenly, the bald-headed man realized that he had been robbed as well as confined in an empty vault.

“The police!” he screamed. “The police!”

He leaped for the telephone, just as it began to ring. He raised the receiver.

“Hello! Hello! This is Hiram Marker!”

There was a sharp click at the other end of the wire. Marker jiggled the hook excitedly. He began to blurt out the news as the operator answered.

A servant came running into the study. He had heard the loud phone bell and the cries which Marker had uttered.

The thin smile showed on Lamont Cranston’s lips. The Shadow had divined the meaning of that interrupted call. He had pieced the sequence of events — the method that the escaping robbers had decided upon to free their prisoners. Even though they had not locked the vault door, they had taken a precaution. Robbery, not murder, was their objective.

The Shadow had played a passive part tonight. He had divined, from a study of the robbery at Blogg’s, that the trio who served Slade Farrow were under orders not to kill. The Shadow had chosen to appear as a chance visitor at Hiram Marker’s home upon this night of crime.

Moreover, he had studied the methods of the crooks. He knew where their swag was going. He had formed plans that concerned its recovery. These were reasons for the thin smile; there was another reason also.

Hawkeye, the keenest crook of the lot, had shown intuition when he had picked Lamont Cranston as a menace. It was a recollection of the past — a hunch that Hawkeye had gained but had been unable to explain.

Hawkeye had met The Shadow; he had sensed the spectral master’s presence, but his hunch had gone no farther.

Hawkeye, shrewd though he was, had not penetrated The Shadow’s guise. He had failed to identify Lamont Cranston as The Shadow.