The Isle of Doubt

CHAPTER XXI. THE ACCOUNTING

HARVEY WENDELL turned to face his fellows. Nervously, the investigator had gone to the front door; then to a door at the end of the room, a blackened opening that led into the kitchen. Though the three crooks were dead, Wendell could not relieve himself of the fancy that some one else had entered into the swift fray which had brought doom to Zach Telvin and those who had joined the convict’s cause.

At last the investigator seemed satisfied. He stood beside the stacks of regained wealth and spoke of his plans.

“We don’t need the posse,” said Wendell. “But we do need the sheriff. How do you feel, Hadley — shaky?”

“Not much,” returned the overseer.

“You’d better go get the sheriff then,” decided Wendell. “Tell him there are three dead crooks up here. He’ll come along with you quick enough.”

Hadley, still a trifle reluctant about taking orders from Wendell, looked toward Weston Levis.

“You heard the instructions, Hadley; you know what to do,” Levis said.

“All right, sir,” said Hadley.

The overseer went out by the front door. Weston Levis sank in the chair which he had formerly occupied, and rested his chin upon his right hand.

“We can tell the sheriff about everything,” he remarked. “Maybe it would be best to render an accounting of the stolen wealth that we have recovered.”

“A good idea,” responded Wendell. “But we’re going to keep the whole business right here. I’ll wait until the sheriff arrives. Then we can call the State officials. I’ve got to make a report of this as soon as possible.”

“Which is all the more reason,” declared Levis, “that we should know the full extent of the stolen funds. It may prove difficult, Wendell, to learn from which banks different amounts were taken.”

“Let some one else worry about that,” laughed Wendell. “Vincent, I’ll be secretary again. You stack away the goods — back in the boxes — and I’ll make the accounts.” The investigator went into the little office, and returned with a large pad of paper and a pencil. Harry, still a bit shaky from the fray, began to call off stacks of currency.

IT was a grotesque scene: men engaged in listing recovered funds while the corpses of three dead crooks still lay upon the floor. But neither Harry, Wendell, nor Levis could feel a sense of pity for those criminals who had come here to slay. It was like the impersonality of warfare — a view of a miniature battlefield, where soldiers ignore the bodies of the slain.

Weston Levis, in suggesting that the funds be listed, had struck a chord of agreement. The thought of the recovered wealth was strong enough to take all minds away from those bodies on the floor.

Yet Harry Vincent, as he called off the numbers of bank notes, still remained perturbed. So far as Levis and Wendell were concerned, there was no reason why Harry should not be nervous. They did not know Harry’s true calling — that as an agent of The Shadow, he had encountered situations like this before.

Harvey Wendell had curbed his nervousness. The investigator had seen men die before.

Most surprising of all, however, was the calmness which had possessed Weston Levis. The old man, recovered from the fright that he had shown, was sitting as stolid as a statue. He seemed absorbed in watching the wealth that passed before his eyes as Harry Vincent dropped the bundles of bank notes back into the boxes.

It was the old man’s calmness that finally lulled Harry into a complete indifference regarding his surroundings. Now that the excitement was over, Harry, too, gained the fascination of counting off the vast supply of wealth. His tone became methodical. He turned to gold certificates and handled them rapidly. Liberty bonds and other securities; stacks of gold; all followed in turn. When the work was completed, Harry sat upon one filled box and Wendell rested on the other.

The investigator was calmly adding figures. Harry watched him, completely forgetful, of Weston Levis.

It was then that the old man uttered the first sound that he had made since the work had commenced.

Harry heard Levis chuckle, and smiled as he caught the satisfaction in the tone. The chuckle was repeated — then again — and again.

Harvey Wendell looked up from his figures and stared toward the old man’s chair. Harry Vincent followed suit. Both men stared in astonishment at what they saw.

Weston Levis was no longer seated in his chair. The old man was standing, a revolver in his hand, facing the two who sat before him.

The threatening muzzle of the gun — the wicked gleam in the old man’s eyes — both were a menace more terrible than the entry of the crooks. From the kindly face of an elderly gentleman, Levis’ visage had changed to the countenance of a fiend.

Horror, more than fear, gripped Harvey Wendell and Harry Vincent. Both were armed with loaded guns, but freed from any dread of a new attack, the State investigator and The Shadow’s agent had now pocketed their weapons.

The expression that Weston Levis wore was one that brooked no opposition. For an instant, Harry Vincent thought that the old man had gone mad. Then, the crafty glint of Levis’ eyes was more apparent.

Thin lips moved, and an evil voice spoke forth ironic words that could have come only by a man in full possession of a sound brain.

“You have done well,” sneered Weston Levis. “You have regained the stolen wealth. You have brought it here to me. The time has come for our accounting!”