The House That Vanished

CHAPTER XIV THE LAW’S QUEST

IT was the next afternoon. A sultry haze clung to the slopes of the horizon about Sheffield. An ominous touch seemed present on the countryside. This was apparent to Doctor Leo Claig as he sat in an old rocker on the front porch of his prisonlike house.

The physician was puffing mildly at a briar pipe. A casual observer would have considered him complacent. But all the while, Claig’s watchful eyes were shrewdly gazing toward roads and hillsides. He was studying the toylike figures of searching men. Jay Goodling had ordered a search throughout the county.

Deputies had passed during the day. Some had seen Doctor Claig standing in his doorway; others had noted him rocking in his porch chair. All had waved friendly greetings, which Claig had returned. None, however, had heard the mild chuckles that the physician uttered after they had passed.

Sunset was approaching. Claig’s gaze turned westward. The watchful man saw wearied figures against the sky. Searchers were inward bound. Cutting across fields, they would pass by the house. They had evidently chosen Claig’s as a landmark on which to take bearings.

A motor throbbed from the road. Claig looked in that direction to see a sedan roll in the driveway. An arm waved from the driver’s seat. Jay Goodling alighted; then Clyde Burke. Following them came Roy Parrell and a stocky man who was evidently one of Parrell’s investigators.

The group approached the porch. Doctor Claig arose, knocked the ashes from his pipe and leaned against a thin pillar. He waited until Goodling was almost to the porch; then drawled:

“Any luck, prosecutor?”

“No, doctor,” returned Goodling. “We’re ending the hunt for today. Driving around to bring in the searchers. There come some of them now.”

He waved toward the stragglers who were coming across the field. The leader of the searchers waved in return. Claig recognized him as Carter.

“I’m posting men on all the roads,” stated Goodling. “Even though that fellow Kermal is hiding out somewhere about, he won’t be able to leave the county. Tomorrow, we’ll have another big hunt.”

“No clues?” queried Claig. “Nothing on the car that Croy was driving?”

“Not a thing. Burke says it was a sedan; but he’s not sure of the make. It was an old bus, a dark color — that’s all he knows.”

“Too bad,” mused Claig, studying Clyde. “It would have helped you, Goodling, had he noted it more closely.”

PARRELL had strolled out from the porch. The private detective was studying Claig’s house curiously, looking up toward barred and shuttered windows. The physician noted this from the corner of his eye. Methodically, Claig pulled a tobacco pouch from his pocket and began to stuff his pipe.

“Lucky I’m still living here,” he chuckled. “Otherwise those rogues might have chosen this house instead of the one on Dobson’s Road. That’s the trouble with a place in the country. You can’t leave it empty.”

The remarks, although addressed to Goodling, had been for Parrell’s benefit. The detective ended his inspection and strolled up to the porch.

“This was your sanitarium?” questioned Parrell.

Claig nodded.

“You must have had a lot of customers once,” added Parrell.

“I did,” chuckled Claig. “Always at least a dozen patients. Do you know, yesterday, I was thinking I might go into business again. With everybody looking for a house that had vanished from the old Westbury road, I thought I would find a lot of nervous cases right in Sheffield.”

“It had me guessing,” put in Goodling. “It did seem like a pipe dream, Claig. But matters are serious right now. I’m mighty worried about Fred Lanford. He may be in greater danger than Myra Dolthan.”

“He won’t be after tomorrow night,” stated Parrell. “Don’t forget that, prosecutor. The girl’s birthday comes on the eighteenth. We’ve got to find her before tomorrow at midnight.”

Carter and his men arrived. The deputy clambered upon the porch and mopped his brow. He looked tired; his gaze wandered toward Goodling’s sedan.

“Say, prosecutor,” suggested Carter, “if you could send some cars up from Sheffield, we’d appreciate it plenty. The boys are pretty worn out, ploughing through some of that soggy ground. I can keep them here until the cars come, instead of tramping into town.”

“Don’t know that I can help you, Carter,” returned Goodling. “Most of the available cars are off in other parts of the county.”

“I have just what you want, Carter,” announced Claig. He removed his pipe from his lips and used it to point toward the rear of the house. “My old station wagon’s out there and I’ve no present use for it. If you can manage to start it, you can take the whole bunch along to town.”

“That’s great, doctor,” returned Carter. “Who knows enough about cars to give me a hand?”

Clyde Burke volunteered. He went along with Carter to the garage. They opened the sliding door and found the station wagon. Clyde noted the old sedan jacked up in the corner, beyond Claig’s coupe. He made no comment. Carter was testing the starter; he discovered that the battery in the station wagon was low. He decided to use the crank.

Another man entered while Carter was cranking. It was Roy Parrell. The detective noted the sedan; observing that it was jacked up, he decided that it had long been out of use. He climbed into the station wagon when Carter called for cooperation with the accelerator.

After a few crankings, the station wagon started. Parrell shifted over from the driver’s seat, pulling the hand throttle to make the motor roar.

Carter took the wheel and backed the vehicle from the garage. He swung about in the drive and headed toward the house.

CLYDE BURKE was closing the sliding, door. Gloom had pervaded the old garage. The door almost closed. Clyde stopped as he heard a warning whisper. Turning about, the reporter saw a door that stood a trifle ajar.

“Report.”

Clyde heard The Shadow’s quiet order. He approached and spoke brief details regarding the fruitless search. The Shadow’s whisper delivered brief instructions. A gloved hand emerged from the blackness beyond the stairway door.

Clyde received a small book: Myra Dolthan’s diary. The reporter placed the volume in his inside pocket, nodded his understanding and stepped from the garage. He slid the big door tightly shut; then walked across the drive, past the house until he reached the porch in front.

The motor of the station wagon was still roaring. The deputies were aboard; Carter at the wheel. Doctor Claig, pipe in hand, was shouting above the tumult.

“Put a service battery in it, Carter,” the physician was ordering. “Have mine recharged. Keep the old wagon as long as you want. If you pay for the recharging of the battery, we’ll call it square.”

Carter nodded; then drove away. The sun had set; long streaks of gloom presaged the coming darkness. Jay Goodling motioned to his companions. They walked to the prosecutor’s car, Claig accompanying them.

“Well, Parrell,” said Goodling, “I’m mighty sorry that you’ve gained no good news for Rufus Dolthan. My only hope is that some of the other searchers may have had some luck. Your other two men are out with them, aren’t they?”

“Over toward Westbury,” replied Parrell. “That’s where they went; probably they’re back by now, though. By the way, Doctor Claig, do you have a telephone here?”

The physician nodded.

“Rufus Dolthan is staying at the Weatherby Hotel,” explained Parrell. “He has Souder with him; and, of course, Wurling and Hazzler came in this morning, bringing my three operatives. But they’re not much help.”

“You mean that Mr. Dolthan is subject to illness?” questioned Claig.

“Yes,” replied the detective. “He is extremely nervous; and failure to find his niece may be too much of a strain for him. I wanted to be sure that you were available.”

“Absolutely,” assured Claig. “Call me at any time, Parrell. Or stop by, if you wish. I’m a regular owl — always awake half the night.”

GOODLING’S car pulled away, carrying the last of the visitors. Doctor Claig stood alone, puffing at his pipe. As he smoked, the physician delivered a contemptuous snort that ended in a chuckle.

He had disposed of these unwanted guests in gilt-edged fashion. Claig’s lips showed a hard smile as he walked back to the house.

The physician thought that eyes were no longer observing him. He was wrong in that supposition. From a darkened window upstairs in the garage, glittering optics were viewing Claig, noting his gestures and expressions from a distance of thirty feet.

A whispered laugh crept through a dusk-filled room as Claig passed from view. Well did The Shadow know the game that lay at stake. He could end Claig’s bluff the moment that he chose to do so.