The Green Box

CHAPTER VII THE SHADOW ARRIVES

HARRY VINCENT had closed the door to Room 301. He was satisfied that Slade Farrow was in Room 309. The man would keep until The Shadow appeared. Harry felt that the best plan was to lay low for the present.

Hence Harry had no track of events in the other room; nor did he have an eye out for activities in the hall. These factors were to prove important in the consequences which were coming.

In Room 309, Slade Farrow was standing by a bureau. He had unwrapped the package. The metal box showed dull green against the oak woodwork. Rusted hinges of unpainted metal showed that the container must have rested in its hiding place for a long time.

A crafty smile showed on Slade Farrow’s firm face. That smile was a flicker of the past. The ex-convict looked like his former self. He was Sam Fulwell, living over that night in the penitentiary when Ferris Legrand had lain dying in the bunk below.

A shaft of moonlight came through the opened window. The dark, clouded night had changed. The silvery beams cast a glow upon the floor beside the window — a recollection of that same illumination which had shone upon Legrand’s last night of life.

Ferris Legrand!

Slade Farrow’s visage hardened. His expression might have meant that he felt remorse because his cellmate was not here to share in the recovery of this box. On the other hand, it might have indicated a secret satisfaction that Legrand was dead. Emotions were hard to trace upon Farrow’s steadied countenance.

Whatever Farrow’s feelings, one point was obvious. The ex-convict had made use of the secret that Legrand had revealed to him. The hiding place of the green metal box was the knowledge that the former merchant of Southfield had told to no one but the cellmate whom he knew as Sam Fulwell.

From his pocket, Slade Farrow removed a bunch of keys. These were of varied shapes and sorts, from heavy instruments to thin-bladed tools. It was one of the latter that Farrow used on the box. The lock refused to turn.

Farrow produced a small oil can and introduced a few drops. Again he worked with the thin-bladed key. The lock opened. Rusty hinges squeaked as the top of the box came upward.

A sheet of wadded newspaper showed inside the box. Farrow pulled it loose. He unfolded it, then tossed it to the floor. It was here merely as protection to the documents that lay beneath. Farrow withdrew a long envelope; then a folded paper that looked like a deed; next, a printed certificate.

A knock at the door. Slade Farrow’s face showed perplexity. For a moment, the man hesitated; then, with quick motion, he replaced the documents and closed the box. The lock closed automatically.

There was a closet near the door of the room. Farrow stepped in that direction. With his left hand, he thrust the green box upon the shelf and toppled a hat over it. With his right hand, he unlocked the door of the room. Opening the barrier, he stepped back.

A STRANGER stood in view. The man was short, stocky and well-dressed. His broad shoulders and heavy hands were evidences of a powerful physique. His face, though square-shaped and brutal, showed a keenness that troubled Slade.

“What do you want?”

Farrow snapped the question as a challenge. The newcomer edged his way into the room and deliberately closed the door behind him.

“I’ve come to see you,” growled the visitor. “Stranger in town, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” retorted Farrow. “I’ve just taken over an old business here in Southfield.”

“I know it,” asserted the stranger. “The Southfield Clothing Shop. That’s what I’ve come to see you about.”

“You’re in the same business?”

The broad-shouldered man scowled at the question. He eyed Farrow narrowly.

“My business is my own,” he growled. “You’ll find out more about it after you’ve been around here a while. Southfield is a place for straight-shooters. You’d better be one if you want to stay here, Farrow.”

Slade Farrow had backed leisurely across the room. His gaze was cold as he surveyed the intruder. He noted that the man’s eyes were glancing suspiciously about the place. Farrow indulged in a contemptuous smile.

“Who are you?” he cut in, with a voice as hard as the intruder’s. “In places where I’m used to being, visitors usually have the courtesy to introduce themselves.”

“Griffel is my name,” returned the intruder. “Eric Griffel — known as Griff. I’m a reception committee of one in this town. I look over the palookas who blow in here. There’s no phony customers in Southfield.”

“And why,” questioned Farrow, in a sarcastic tone, “have you come to regard me in the light of an undesirable settler in Southfield?”

“I’ll tell you why,” retorted Griff. “The man who used to run the business you bought turned out to be a crook. Maybe the atmosphere might have the same effect on you.”

“Trouble seems to be your business.”

“I look for it.”

“Go ahead. Look.”

Farrow calmly seated himself in a chair and lighted a cigarette. Griffel lost no time in accepting the sarcastic invitation. The broad-shouldered intruder peered about the room, making no pretence in his action. Turning, he gave a sharp glance at Farrow; then peered quickly beneath the bed.

“Ah!” Farrow was ironical as he puffed at his cigarette. “You think I’m smuggling Chinese into Southfield, eh?”

“Never mind the lip.” Griffel paused as he turned. “If you’re on the level, you’re welcome in Southfield. If you’re pulling something, you’re going to be watched. That’s all.”

“Thanks,” sneered Farrow.

For a long instant the two men eyed each other steadily. The room was silent; then came the muffled clanging of a locomotive bell — the Night Express at the Southfield depot a few blocks away.

GRIFFEL turned as though about to leave. Almost by chance, his eye spied the crumpled sheet of newspaper lying in the wastebasket. With a leap, the heavily-built man sprang forward and seized the tell-tale sheet. He stared at it; then turned quickly toward Farrow.

“Where did you get this?” demanded Griffel.

“What is it to you?” challenged Farrow, stepping forward with clenched fists.

“This,” snarled Griffel. His hand came from his pocket, bringing a revolver. “Move back there, wise guy. Answer clean. Where did you pick up this newspaper — a couple of years old? Down at Legrand’s store?”

“You would make a competent detective,” scoffed Farrow. “Your deduction, my dear chap, is quite correct. I found that newspaper at my new store; I used it to wrap up a coat that I brought back with me.”

“This paper?” ridiculed Griffel. “Maybe. Maybe not. Edge over to that wall. I’m taking a look in the closet.”

Keeping his gun trained on Farrow, Griffel moved toward the closet. He yanked the door open and threw a quick glance within. Farrow was watching him tensely. For a moment, the ex-convict thought that the intruder would not discover the box. Then Griffel, in another quick glance, happened to notice the odd tilt of the hat on the shelf.

With a rapid move, the broad-shouldered man shot his hand beneath the hat and came out with the green metal box. A fierce grin appeared upon his face as he examined his find. His hard eyes focused upon Slade Farrow.

“Where did you get this?” quizzed Griffel. “Answer or I’ll fill you with lead.”

Farrow shrugged his shoulders in resigned fashion. His voice was low and calm as he replied.

“If that’s what you’re after, you’re welcome to it,” asserted the ex-convict. “I found it down in the basement of the old store, while I was examining the furnace. I wondered what it was and I brought it up here.”

“You found it by the furnace?”

“On the furnace. Wedged under a heating pipe.”

Farrow’s tone was convincing. Griffel pocketed his revolver and placed one hand upon the knob of the outer door.

“Legrand was a crook,” he affirmed, coldly. “Anything like this doesn’t belong to him — and what doesn’t belong to him isn’t yours. Get that?

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll attend to your knitting. Just forget that I ever came around here. Mind your own affairs if you want to get along in Southfield—”

Griffel’s growl broke as Farrow, with a sudden spring, came catapulting across the room just as the broad-shouldered man was opening the door. Before Griffel could yank out his gun, Farrow was upon him.

The green box bounded out into the hall and clattered on the floor as Griffel met the attack. For a moment, Farrow’s bull-like charge gave him the advantage. Griffel hurtled back against the wall inside the doorway. Then the powerful intruder caught his antagonist in a viselike grip.

They wrestled wildly. A chair bounced against the bureau. Griffel caught with a hold that raised Farrow toward the ceiling and sent the ex-convict in a heap upon the floor just within the doorway.

Leaping to the hall, Griffel grabbed up the box. Pulling his revolver from his pocket, he aimed savagely. Murder was in his eye. Slade Farrow, senseless on the floor, was at the point of death.

BEFORE Griffel could press the trigger, a man leaped from a doorway down the hall. It was Harry Vincent.

The Shadow’s agent had heard the commotion. He saw murder in the making. He was springing to the rescue. A helpless man at the mercy of a potential killer was sufficient cause to intervene.

Griffel sensed the leap. He turned in time to meet Harry’s onrush. His powerful shoulder caught The Shadow’s agent in the chest. Swinging his gun, Griffel grazed the top of Harry’s head. The two men, locking, staggered toward the stairway.

The box shot from Griffel’s arm and bounded down the steps. His left hand free, Griffel dealt a sudden blow to Harry’s chin. The Shadow’s agent sprawled upon the floor while Griffel leaped madly down the carpeted stairs. Rising groggily, Harry almost gained his feet; then slumped and lay in a daze. All was silent in the hall. Slade Farrow was lying motionless within his doorway.

There was an open exit to a fire tower at the end of the hall. It showed dull light from the city lights. Suddenly, that low glow was blackened out. Two burning eyes stared from the darkness.

A figure emerged. It was that of a being garbed in black. The Shadow had arrived. Knowing that his agent would be awaiting his arrival, the master of the night had chosen this means of entrance.

The black cloak swished as The Shadow advanced. He reached Harry Vincent’s crumpled form and lifted the husky young man with a single arm. Easily, The Shadow bore Harry through the open door into Room 301. Seeing that his agent was recuperating, The Shadow let him rest upon the bed.

Moving swiftly, The Shadow headed for Slade Farrow’s room. He bent above the unconscious form and noted that Farrow, like Harry, was no more than stunned. Keen eyes spied the crumpled sheet of newspaper upon the floor close by the wastebasket. A low laugh came from unseen lips as The Shadow stepped forward to examine this piece of evidence.

The old newspaper passed out of sight beneath the folds of the black cloak. The Shadow’s keen eyes noted the hat in the closet, flopped upside down upon the shelf, where Eric Griffel had tossed it.

Another laugh — a hollow whisper that made no more than a soft echo in that room where action had ceased. The Shadow stooped and drew Slade Farrow’s huddled form inward. The man moved slightly as The Shadow stepped through the door and closed the barrier behind him.

The blackened figure reached the fire tower. It merged with outer darkness. The Shadow had arrived too late to frustrate this quick pair of combats in which Eric Griffel had bowled out two antagonists.

Yet The Shadow had a clear idea of what had occurred. He knew that Slade Farrow had been robbed of spoils. He knew that some powerful intruder had made a getaway. He knew that this combatant had broken loose from Harry Vincent’s clutch.

Avoidance of gunfire, in Harry’s case, had been a natural move on Griffel’s part. The intruder had gained what he sought. Murder of an intervening hotel guest would have been an error.

The Shadow was gone; not long afterward, the silhouette that marked his presence came stretching inward across the lobby floor of the Southfield House. It was not a figure in black that cast that sinister streak of darkness. The Shadow was here in other garb.

He had chosen the guise of Lamont Cranston. Tall, well-dressed and quiet of demeanor, he approached to sign his name upon the hotel register. A bell boy was bringing in two suitcases which this new guest had left upon the sidewalk.

Crime and countercrime! Such were the events that stalked in Southfield. Ferris Legrand’s hidden treasure had been uncovered by Slade Farrow. An intruder had wrested the find from the ex-convict.

The Shadow knew the truth. He knew also that this could be but the beginning of a coming struggle. A man of Slade Farrow’s ilk would not be balked by temporary defeat.

It was The Shadow’s game to wait. Here, in Southfield, he was prepared to solve the mystery of crime and countercrime!