The House That Vanished

CHAPTER V THE MAN IN THE SEDAN

WHILE The Shadow was lingering in the empty, almost forgotten house on Dobson’s Road, one of his agents was approaching a farm building on the other side of Sheffield. This was Clyde Burke, riding in a coupe that he had hired. The reporter was on his way to pick up Fred Lanford.

Clyde applied the brakes as he saw a man step into the road. The fellow had come from a house gate. Clyde knew that this must be Lanford’s farm. He turned on the dome light as the man stepped forward.

“You’re Fred Lanford?” queried Clyde, surveying the pale, serious-looking man who peered through the coupe window.

A nod was the response.

“I’m Burke,” explained Clyde. “Hop in; we’ll ride downtown.”

Lanford complied. He shook hands with Clyde, then turned out the dome light at the reporter’s suggestion. Clyde headed back toward Sheffield.

“Nice of you to come out here and get me,” said Lanford, as they rode along. “There’s only one thing about it, Burke. I don’t think I ought to talk much until after I’ve seen Goodling.”

“I understand,” acknowledged Clyde. “I’m not trying to work you for an interview. I told you that over the telephone. All I want to do is check up on the story as it already stands. This business about the house seems too fantastic to be real.”

“I don’t blame you for thinking that, Burke,” chuckled Lanford. “Actually, I thought I’d had a pipe dream when I woke up. But when I told my story, it fitted Jay Goodling’s account right to every detail. We couldn’t both have had the same delusion.”

“That’s logical,” agreed Clyde.

“Jay and I have always been pals,” went on Lanford. “We went to college together; then I came back to help dad run the farm while he took up law. I can vouch for Jay’s word and he can vouch for mine.

“We went through a real experience Saturday night. We both remembered names that we heard mentioned. The names of people whom we saw. Kermal — Daggart — Croy. Say — that fellow Croy was a tough fighter.

“He caught Jay unawares; but I had a chance to nab him. I would have made good on it, too; but I was woozy after looking at that corpse in the other room. Say” — Clyde could see Lanford’s fists clench — “I’d like a crack at that big bird once again. I’d show him this time.”

“About the girl,” remarked Clyde, as Lanford paused. “Her name was not mentioned?”

“No. She was the one who told us the names of the others. That pale fellow, Daggart, seemed upset about it. I wonder what had happened to him. His left arm was bandaged and in a sling.”

“Do you think that his wound was recent?”

“Yes. The bandages were fresh. Of course they could have been new ones; but he was so pale, it looked as though he’d gone through something not long before we arrived.”

LANFORD paused and sat silent, staring through the windshield. Clyde had turned into a road that led directly into Sheffield. Far ahead, a traffic light showed a crossing on the outskirts of the town. An arc light also illuminated the corner.

“I was rather groggy when I came to my senses,” resumed Lanford. “First thing I heard on Sunday morning was the roar of the creek. They’d parked Jay and myself mighty close to the broken bridge.

“It’s a deep chasm there; and it was filled to the brim. Sure death for anybody who might have coasted into that mess. But I stopped worrying about the creek when I began to think about the night before. My arm’s still a bit stiff from that jab they gave me with the hypo.”

A sedan had cut in from a side street. It was rolling ahead of Clyde’s coupe. Both cars were approaching the traffic light. The gleam turned red. The sedan stopped and Clyde swung up beside it.

Clyde went to the left of the sedan, which was apparently waiting to make a right turn into the secluded cross street.

Clyde muttered jokingly about the uselessness of a light at this point. He stopped suddenly as he heard a sound beside him. Lanford was opening the door.

“What’s up?” queried Clyde.

Lanford was halfway out of the car. He caught Clyde’s forearm in a warning grip. He whispered as he pointed to the sedan; the driver of the other car was looking up at the traffic light.

“See him?” queried Lanford, hoarsely. “Do you know who he is? That’s Croy! I’m going to get him!”

Clyde shot a look as Lanford scrambled to the street. The reporter saw the scarred face of the man in the sedan. He noted puffy lips; he realized that the driver of the other car must be a huge hulk of a fellow.

It was too late to stop Lanford. Clyde would have recommended a chase, not an attack against so powerful a fighter. But Lanford, angered by his previous defeat, had already grabbed the opportunity that he wanted. He was pouncing straight toward the sedan.

Croy heard him coming. As Lanford reached the front door of the sedan, the big man shot a wild, hurried look at his unexpected antagonist. He recognized Lanford as the young man from the previous night. Lanford sprang upon the running board and thrust his hands through the opened window, aiming for Croy’s throat.

Clyde saw a big fist flash. Lanford thumped back, staggering halfway to the coupe. Croy hurled the front door open and leaped from the sedan. Lanford piled forward to meet him.

CRYING encouragement to Lanford, Clyde leaped to the street and surged forward to aid. Had Lanford put up a real struggle, the reporter could have aided him. But Croy was too much for Lanford.

The huge man had delivered a second punch. Lanford was crumpling. He dropped away as Clyde arrived. Croy swung another powerful blow against Clyde’s chest. The reporter catapulted back against the coupe.

With a fierce snarl, Croy yanked open the rear door of the sedan. He scooped up Lanford’s form and hurled the groggy man within.

Slamming the rear door, he leaped to the wheel and pulled his own door shut. He swung the car about, to drive back along the street down which he had come.

Clyde Burke had regained his wind. Croy’s move gave the reporter opportunity. Running to the rear of the coupe, Clyde cut across in back and reached the sedan as it passed. He leaped to the running board beside the driver’s seat. He shot a quick fist to Croy’s jaw.

The scarred face took the punch unflinching. Croy’s left arm swung out and encased Clyde. Driving with his right, the big man gripped and battled with his left while he sped the sedan along the silent street, heading out of town.

Clyde was wiry; that fact made up for the lack of weight behind his punches. He proved tougher than Croy had expected. Though he needed his left hand to hold on to the door of the sedan, Clyde found opportunity to use his right. He pummeled Croy as thoroughly as he could.

Yet Clyde’s punches only glanced from the scarred face. Croy’s head was bobbing back and forth; his left arm warded off most of the reporter’s blows. Whirling along a serpentine course, the sedan was leaving the town behind.

Anything to stop the car. That was Clyde’s frenzied thought. He was willing to risk a wreck to end this mad course. At intervals he almost succeeded.

They were roaring along an outlying road. At one point, Croy jammed the brakes as the sedan swung to the right. The big car skidded; then found its course along a dirt road.

Clyde lost his grip as the sedan swung. Croy’s hamlike hand caught the back of the reporter’s neck. The big man guffawed; his puffy lips showed a grin as he swung his opponent back and forth.

Clyde’s light body wavered like a dummy figure; his feet clicked the running board while his hands made wild, unsuccessful grasps for the door.

The car slowed at another turn. Croy swung right. As he did, he flung his huge left arm outward. The heave precipitated Clyde a full dozen feet. The Shadow’s agent landed at the edge of the road and hurtled headforemost upon a grassy bank.

CLYDE rolled over and came up gasping. He rose unsteadily and looked around for the car. It was gone, past the turn in the road. To follow by foot would be useless.

Clyde thought of his coupe, three miles away, on the outskirts of Sheffield. He realized now that he should have followed in his car. He had made the same mistake as Lanford.

As on a previous night, Croy had conquered two combatants. He had overpowered Lanford and carried the man away as prisoner. He had pitched Clyde Burke from the side of his speeding car. Evidently he had considered the reporter unimportant.

Croy, despite his great strength, must be stupid. So Clyde decided as he started back along the road. For although the big man had carried off Lanford, he had left Clyde free to bear witness of the affray that had ended in the abduction of Fred Lanford.

Under the circumstances, Clyde had but one choice. He knew that he must go into Sheffield and report to Jay Goodling. The conference in the prosecutor’s office was already under way; for Clyde and Lanford would have arrived just at the time that Goodling had set.

Clyde Burke grunted huskily as he limped townward, still shaky from his battle with Croy. He was on his way to drop a bombshell into the conference at Goodling’s, so he thought.

But Clyde’s conjecture was wrong on that point. Already developments were taking place in Sheffield. Occurrences were due there that would prove more startling than Clyde’s experience with Croy.