The House That Vanished

CHAPTER III THE SHADOW ARRIVES

IT was morning in Manhattan. A quiet, round-faced man was seated at an office desk. From beyond his window loomed the sky line of the city; but the view did not concern this worker. The round-faced man was studying a map which showed the terrain about the town of Sheffield.

A rap sounded at the door. The man at the desk folded the map then gave an order to enter. A stenographer appeared.

“Mr. Vincent is calling,” said the girl. “Shall I tell him to come in, Mr. Mann?”

“Certainly,” responded Mann. “At once.”

A few minutes later, a clean-cut young man was facing Mann in the inner office. Vincent’s appearance was one that denoted an active temperament quite a contrast to the lethargic expression of Mann’s chubby visage.

Yet both were workers in the same service. Rutledge Mann and Harry Vincent were agents of The Shadow. Mann, an investment broker, was a contact who relayed orders to the active aids such as Harry.

“You have seen this clipping?” inquired Mann. “It appeared in this morning’s newspaper.”

“I saw it,” smiled Harry, as he viewed the item that Mann passed him, “but I passed it up as something of a hoax. Two men reporting a murder in an isolated house, only to find that the building had vanished.”

“Read more closely,” suggested Mann. “You will note that one of the two men was the county prosecutor.”

“That’s right,” acknowledged Harry, studying the clipping. “Say — that puts a new light on the case, doesn’t it? This ought to have been front page stuff, Mann.”

“It will be soon,” stated the broker. “The New York newspapers are sending men to Sheffield. Clyde Burke is going for the Classic.”

“Burke has already supplied further details,” stated Mann, unfolding the map on his desk. “So I suggest, Vincent, that you listen to my full account. I can amplify facts that the newspapers merely skimmed over in the first story. Like yourself, they took it as a hoax at the start.

“Here” — Mann pointed to the map — “is the town of Sheffield. A paved road runs southward from Sheffield, then curves west and reaches Westbury, some dozen miles distant. You will notice that there are dirt roads going to the right from the main highway. One of them — this one — is important. It is the old road to Westbury.”

Harry nodded.

“Saturday night, after midnight,” resumed Mann, “Jay Goodling, county prosecutor and his friend, Fred Lanford, were riding along the paved road. They were going southward, from Sheffield to Westbury, when a man named Turner flagged them with a lantern. Somewhere in this neighborhood.”

Mann tapped the map with his pencil. Harry watched while the investment broker made a mark, then moved the pencil to a point about three miles south.

“This is Roaring Creek,” he explained. “The bridge had gone out during the heavy storm. Turner had hiked up to the road to stop other cars. He was heading into Sheffield. Goodling and Lanford decided to take the old Westbury road, which turns off before the bridge.”

HARRY noted four roads going to the right between Mann’s pencil mark and the creek. Only one, the third, was a through dirt highway. It was the old road to Westbury.

“Goodling and Lanford found the old Westbury road,” explained Mann. “They identified it by the conspicuous sign that marks it. Driving up the road, they discovered a house. They entered, in the hope of finding a telephone.

“The servant who admitted them was named Croy. They also encountered a man named Daggart, ostensibly a secretary, whose arm was in a sling, indicating a recent wound. The supposed owner of the house, whom they likewise met, was named Kermal.”

“What about the girl?” questioned Harry, holding up the clipping. “This story deals chiefly with the mysterious brunette, who vanished along with the house. Talks about the whole affair as if it had been a pipe dream.”

“The girl,” replied Mann, “was the person who mentioned the names of the others. Her name, however, was not learned. She advised Goodling and Lanford to leave.”

“But instead, they snooped around and found the body?”

“Yes. The report is correct. They found a dead man, who had been shot through the heart. Goodling and Lanford started a fight. They were overpowered. Goodling recalls that he was jabbed with a hypodermic needle. Lanford was too groggy to remember.

“That happened after midnight, Saturday. Shortly before noon, Sunday, Goodling and Lanford were found, half asleep, in the coupe. The car was about fifty yards from the washed-out bridge.

“As county prosecutor, Goodling has extraordinary powers. As soon as he was sufficiently roused to remember his story coherently, he ordered a search for the house. A dozen men scoured the old Westbury road. They failed to find the building at all.”

“There are no houses along that road?”

“There are a dozen. But all are occupied by persons who are well known in the vicinity. Goodling and Lanford spoke of an extravagantly furnished living room. None of the houses can match that description. The report, Vincent, is not exaggerated. The mystery house vanished over night.”

“But suppose that—”

Mann smiled as he held up his hand. He drew a watch from his pocket and nodded as he consulted the time.

“You can catch the one o’clock train for Sheffield,” he stated. “You will find Burke there, representing the Classic. He will introduce you as a representative of the National Press Association. He will supply you with credentials.”

WHILE Harry Vincent was on his way from Rutledge Mann’s office, a singular event was taking place in another portion of Manhattan. A bluish light was gleaming in the corner of a black-walled room. Long white hands were unfolding a map that resembled Mann’s.

The Shadow was in his sanctum. He, too, was marking points in the neighborhood of Sheffield and Westbury. The Shadow, like Harry Vincent, had questions that needed answering. His whispered laugh betokened that fact.

A pointing finger touched the town marked Westbury. It traced a northeast course toward Sheffield, following the line of the old road. The Shadow’s finger stopped.

Although Goodling and Lanford had started their journey from Sheffield. the spot of their strange adventure had been nearer the town of Westbury. Furthermore, Westbury was larger than Sheffield, despite the fact that the latter town was the county seat.

Long hands folded the map. The bluish light clicked off. The Shadow’s laugh sounded in the darkness. Shivering tones betokened his urge for new adventure. When silence reigned within the black-walled room, The Shadow had departed.

Like his agents, he was faring forth to the mysterious terrain from which a house had vanished. But he had chosen to make his starting point the town of Westbury, in preference to Sheffield. Burke and Vincent could cover that town for the present.

IT was late in the afternoon when Harry Vincent strolled into the lobby of the Weatherby Hotel, the old-fashioned inn that constituted Sheffield’s sole hotel. He learned that Clyde Burke was in a room on the third floor. Harry went up and rapped on the door. Hearing a call to enter, he stepped in to find Clyde seated at a typewriter.

“Stuff for the Classic,” chuckled Clyde. “Close the door, Harry. I’ve got your credentials. I thought you’d be in on the train I just heard chugging in.”

“Anything new on the house?” questioned Harry.

“Not a thing,” replied Clyde, seriously. “I’ve talked with Goodling. He won’t go into further details until this evening. He’s holding a conference in his office.”

“Do you think he has learned something?”

“Yes. But not about the house. He’s still mystified on that point. The place has vanished.”

“Have you talked with Lanford?”

“I’m going to. Before he comes into the conference. He lives out in the country and he’s still sleeping off his dopey jag. They must have given him a bigger dose than they did Goodling.”

“Have they searched for the house today?”

“Sure. They started at Sunday noon. Here it is, Monday afternoon, and they’ve just finished.”

Harry considered. Clyde watched him rub his chin. The reporter laughed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” declared Clyde. “They ought to have looked along the other roads. Well, they did; but they had no luck.”

“No houses?”

“A few. But occupied by persons whom they knew, except for some empties. They knew who the owners of the empty houses were, and they’ve checked on them. All pass muster.”

Clyde produced a road map. He had dotted it at various points. The marks indicated houses.

“Here’s the old Gallivan house,” he stated. “Been empty for two years; but it’s three miles up the Westbury road. Goodling is sure that he and Lanford couldn’t have traveled that far. One mile was about the limit.

“This house is empty. An artist named Brooks left it a month ago, to make a trip to California. But it’s not on the old Westbury road. It’s on one of those other roads. See? The first one past the Westbury road.

“Same thing with this house. It was owned by a farmer named Buckley. It’s on the first road before you reach the old Westbury road; and it was burned out last fall. The big point, Harry, is that Goodling and Lanford both saw the old sign that points to Westbury. It’s there, big as life. I went down to look at it this afternoon.”

“But what about tire marks?” questioned Harry. “Those ought to tell something. Those dirt roads must have been mighty muddy.”

“Too muddy,” replied Clyde. “They all led down into the paved road. They were raging torrents on Saturday night. Completely washed out by morning. Nothing left to go by.

“You can take it or leave it, Harry. The cold truth is that a house is missing. It’s a bigger problem than a stolen bass drum. It has me guessing, just like everyone else.”

HARRY was about to speak when the telephone bell rang. Clyde picked up the telephone from beside his typewriter. As he answered, Harry saw a steady expression appear upon the reporter’s face.

Briefly, in short sentences, Clyde reported the same facts that he had given Harry. His words were prompted by questions that he heard across the wire. When the call was ended, Clyde hung up and nodded as he looked toward Harry

“It will pass as a long-distance call from the Classic,” explained Clyde. “I talked like I was giving dope for a story. But that call was from a place nearer than New York.”

“Westbury?” guessed Harry

Again Clyde nodded. Those quiet tones that he had heard could have come from only one person: The Shadow.

“I’m to see Lanford,” stated Clyde. “I’ll introduce you to Goodling after dinner; then I’ll cut out and meet Lanford before he comes in to the conference. You can stick with Goodling.”

Clyde dug into a suitcase to obtain Harry’s credentials. Harry stood looking from the window, studying the town of Sheffield, beneath the darkening, clouded afternoon sky. A smile showed upon Harry’s lips.

For Harry could guess what The Shadow’s work would be while his agents were engaged in checking on developments here. Harry’s hunch was that The Shadow was planning a prompt search for the vanished house wherein Jay Goodling and Fred Lanford had encountered strange adventure.

Would The Shadow succeed in that strange quest that had baffled scores of searchers? Harry Vincent believed it probable; yet he could not fathom what The Shadow’s course could be. For in all his service as an agent of The Shadow, Harry Vincent had never encountered a case with so strange a beginning as this.

Men who knew the ground could offer no answer to the disappearance of a house with all its furnishings. The Shadow, here for the first time, following only the reports of others, was apparently faced by an impossible task.

So Harry Vincent reasoned; but his own arguments failed. Greater even than reason was Harry’s confidence in The Shadow’s amazing power of deduction.