The Green Box

CHAPTER XVII AGENTS WATCH

THE next evening. Southfield had become an armed camp. Townsend Rowling’s demand for deputies had been fully granted. Griff’s vigilantes were patrolling the main street.

The Southfield Bank was the center point. The deputies stationed there were armed with rifles. Passing citizens were divided in opinion. Some were disconcerted by these preparations; others were approving.

The consensus, however, voiced the thought that crime must be stopped at any cost. Efforts to apprehend the successful robbers had failed. The best plan was to prevent a recurrence of crime.

Slade Farrow, busy behind the counter of his store, looked up to see two persons enter. One was Norton Granger; with the young lawyer was Mildred Legrand. Slade Farrow bowed. His face — a countenance that could register many expressions — was typical of the courtly gentleman.

“Good evening,” greeted the ex-convict.

“Good evening, Mr. Farrow,” said Mildred Legrand. “I have come to thank you for your generosity. Norton has persuaded me that I should take the additional thousand dollars as purchase money.”

Farrow looked toward Granger. He saw at once that the young attorney had not taken the credit which Farrow had suggested. Suavely, Farrow expressed the thought himself.

“It was not my generosity, Miss Legrand,” he declared. “Thank Mr. Granger for his good business sense. When he and I discussed the value of the purchase, I found myself agreeing with him that the original price had been too low.”

Mildred Legrand looked toward Norton Granger. The lawyer’s accustomed poise failed him. Confused, Granger could only stammer. His manner indicated that Farrow’s statement had been one of fact.

“This business is a good one.” Farrow, still suave, spoke again to prevent Granger from talking out of turn. “I have found everything as represented. Well established, it has given me great possibilities for expansion.”

“My father was proud of this store,” nodded Mildred. “I–I was keeping it in operation on his account. Then — then he died. I am glad, Mr. Farrow, that you are running the business the way father would have liked to see it.”

“Mr. Farrow is the type of merchant that Southfield needs,” declared Norton Granger. “He is to be commended upon his work here. How are the branch stores doing, Mr. Farrow?”

“Very well,” replied Farrow, with a smile. He was looking toward the door. “Here is the truck. Have you seen it since I put the new streamers on it?”

STEPPING from behind the counter. Farrow led the way to the door. The delivery truck had drawn up in front of the store. Dave was on the sidewalk, calling to Louie to help him unload a box.

The sides of the truck bore the painted legend:

This name and slogan had already become familiar since Farrow’s truck had begun its daily rounds. Below, however, was a new addition. A heavy oilcloth streamer ran all along the bottom of the truck, its lower edge almost dragging in the street.

A big red arrow occupied the center of this hanging banner. Two lines of words appeared: one above the horizontal shaft, the other below. They stated:

“My idea,” chuckled Farrow. “The same wording appears on the other side of the truck. You see, the truck is always heading for one of my three stores. If any one wants to follow the arrow, they’ll find a Southfield Clothing Shop at the finish of the trip.”

“Real advertising!” exclaimed Norton Granger. “This is the kind of thing that brings business.”

“Which is what I’m out to get,” smiled Farrow.

The ex-convict’s gaze turned along the main street. Farrow saw clusters of deputies in the neighborhood of the Southfield Bank. Norton Granger looked in the same direction.

“We have plenty of protection,” remarked Farrow. “Evidently those recent robberies have caused considerable consternation.”

“Townsend Rowling is worried,” admitted Granger. “I arranged for two hundred deputies yesterday. Rowling fears a raid on his bank.”

“The place appears safe enough.”

“Yes. But if the crooks plan another visit to Southfield, the bank is the place where they will strike.”

“I doubt that they will try it now.”

“So do I, Farrow. Those deputies are ready for any emergency. They have rifles and tear-gas bombs. Should any alarm sound, they are prepared to enter the bank and overcome the marauders.”

“An unnecessary precaution, Granger. How could any criminals get into the bank in the first place, with a whole company of guards on duty outside?”

Norton Granger shrugged his shoulder. He agreed with Farrow that an entrance to the bank would be impossible.

“The building is well protected,” decided Granger. “I feel, however, that Rowling must be worried because it lacks the features of a large city bank. The walls, for instance, could be blown open. Or crooks might drill their way in—”

“Not with the guards on duty.”

“Exactly. That is why Rowling called for such protection.”

While Slade Farrow was nodding wisely, Norton Granger turned to Mildred Legrand.

“I’m sorry, Mildred,” stated Granger, “that you have an engagement for this evening. Could you dine with me at the hotel, in the meantime?”

Mildred nodded. Granger waved good-by to Farrow. The lawyer and the girl crossed the street. Slade Farrow watched them. Evidently the present was lulling the memory of the past, so far as these young people were concerned.

FARROW’S benign expression faded as the ex-convict turned back into his store. His face hardened. It showed traces of the grim countenance which Farrow had displayed while a prisoner in the penitentiary.

Dave and Louie were waiting inside the store. No customers were present.

“Get the boxes out,” ordered Farrow, in a low tone. “We’re going through with it tonight. I’m counting on you. No slip up.”

The two men nodded.

“Keep on to Gwynnesborough,” added Farrow. “Be back here at nine o’clock. Stall around at the restaurant down near the athletic club. Coffee and doughnuts — then be ready when the trouble breaks.”

New nods. Slade Farrow waved his hand. Dave and Louie turned toward the stairs that led to the basement. Slade Farrow took his place behind the counter. He was pleasant in manner as he waited on an arriving customer.

Dave and Louie appeared with a large packing case. They carried it out and placed it aboard the truck. They came back for another. While they were engaged in loading, Farrow looked up to see Eric Griffel entering the store.

The leader of the vigilantes was wearing a deputy’s badge. Farrow noticed it. He pointed a finger and made a remark.

“A good idea,” said Farrow. “But it’s not enough. I understand you have about two hundred men on the job. Why don’t they wear uniforms?”

Griff eyed Farrow narrowly. The leader of the vigilantes was still wary of this man from whom he had wrested Ferris Legrand’s green metal box. At the same time, Farrow’s explanation of how he had found the box was one which Griff had been forced to accept. Farrow’s conduct as a reputable Southfield merchant had produced a lulling effect. The suggestion of uniforms was in keeping with the clothing business.

“Smart gray coats,” suggested Farrow. “Gray trousers and caps to match. I can get wholesale prices that will amaze you, Griff.”

“Who’ll pay for the outfits?”

“Charge the deputies for them. They’re working for regular salary. I suppose their wages are low, but those who didn’t have jobs are getting money they hadn’t counted on; and those who are doing part time duty as deputies are making side money.”

“I’ll take it up with Rowling,” declared Griff, in a pleased tone. “Say, Farrow — you’re enterprising. I’ve got to admit it.”

Farrow chuckled at the compliment. Three boxes had gone out. Dave and Louie were carrying a fourth. Farrow called to stop them.

“Hold up a minute!” he exclaimed. “You’re coming back from Gwynnesborough. What’s the idea of taking those overcoats that are supposed to go to Galport?”

Stepping from in back of the counter, Farrow approached the packing case. He picked up a hatchet that was beside the counter and pried open the top of the box. Overcoats showed within.

“Nice lot of goods,” remarked Farrow. Griff nodded. Farrow replaced the top that he had pried loose. “Take this back downstairs” — Farrow’s order was to Dave and Louie — “and bring up the rest of those Gwynnesborough boxes. Keep the lids off. I want to make sure you’re bringing the right stuff.”

As he chatted casually with Griff, Farrow inspected each of five more boxes that his men brought up to the shop. He hammered on the lids himself while Dave and Louie were going after other cases. All the while he talked to Griff:

“The Gwynnesborough store is making money… Just an experiment at first… Stocking it up heavy now… Bonding the clerk that I put in charge… Going to take on two new clerks here next week… Hope Galport shows results like Gwynnesborough… Guess I can hire a couple of good men here in town… You’ve got most of them as deputies though…”

WHEN Griff strolled out of the store after buying some new shirts, he was more convinced than ever concerning Slade Farrow’s competence as a business man. He believed that he had seen the entire stock that was going to the Gwynnesborough store. He thought nothing of the three packing cases that had been loaded on the truck prior to his arrival.

Griff stared admiringly at the truck with its trailing banners at the side. As Dave raised the back and closed the doors, Griff saw that the oilcloth extended at the rear and bore the legend:

Just as Dave was taking the wheel, Louie came out of the store with a small box that had evidently been forgotten. Grumbling, Dave refused to open the back of the delivery truck. Louie set the box on the runningboard and held it there. Griff paid no more attention to the truck as he strolled past the bank toward the athletic club.

There were watchers, however, who saw the truck depart. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, seated by the window of Room 301, were keeping vigil. The truck rolled slowly up the main thoroughfare. As it neared the bank, the loose box suddenly fell from the runningboard. Dave applied the brakes. The truck stopped in the middle of the street, almost directly in front of the bank.

Louie scrambled from his seat. The box had broken open. Shirts wrapped in cellophane had scattered on the street. Louie made a funny sight as he waved at approaching cars, steering them aside. Bobbing about, Louie gathered up the shirts and replaced them in the box.

Coming to the truck, he set the box on the runningboard and fished out a rope from beneath the front seat. Under Dave’s direction, he tied the box firmly in place. The work was slow. Fully five minutes elapsed before Louie clambered aboard and the truck pulled away.

Eyes were watching from above. In Room 401, a thin smile formed on the hawklike visage of Lamont Cranston. The tall watcher went to the writing desk. He inscribed a blue-inked message. He inserted it in an envelope. Leaving the room, he took the stairway to the floor below.

Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent were talking in subdued whispers. They were discussing the matter of the truck.

“It looked natural enough,” Cliff was saying, “but it may have been a stall.”

Harry nodded.

“That fellow took a while to tie the rope,” added Cliff. “The way the box cracked open gave him time, too.”

“Wait a minute.” Harry gripped Cliff’s arm. “Look — that’s where the truck stopped, isn’t it? Right over that man-hole cover.”

“That’s the spot.”

“What do you think was in the truck?” questioned Harry, in an excited whisper. “Just boxes?”

“Maybe not.”

“And those new streamers, with the arrows. Dragging to the street — covering the wheels—”

“I get you, Harry!” Cliff’s tone also betrayed excitement. “A trapdoor in the bottom of the truck. A hidden drop under cover of the streamers—”

“That’s it,” interposed Harry. “The same three men who robbed Blogg and Marker—”

Something swished beneath the door of the room. Harry and Cliff turned quickly to see an envelope, projected from beyond, coming to the end of a flutter that had followed its swift skim.

Harry pounced on the envelope and opened it. He and Cliff read the coded lines. The words faded one by one. Harry looked at Cliff.

Their assumptions were correct. The Shadow had spied the game while his agents were still pondering. He had prepared the message; his instructions told Cliff and Harry to remain here on duty.

Craftily, Slade Farrow had unloaded his three threats into a conduit that led beneath the walls of the Southfield Bank. While more than a score of watchers guarded the street, crime was coming from below!

Grimly, The Shadow’s agents watched. The waiting game was still in progress. The Shadow was ready. Did he intend to let this third crime strike?

Only The Shadow knew!