The London Crimes

CHAPTER X. PATHS IN THE DARK

WHEN the coupe arrived back at Craybaw’s, The Shadow dropped off as Cuthbert took the final curve. A black shape in the darkness, he paused beside a mass of shrubbery to observe proceedings at the lighted house front. Craybaw had come out, wearing hat and coat, accompanied by the others.

“I shall not be long,” assured Craybaw. He was carrying the parcel under his arm. “Make yourselves quite at home, gentlemen. Keep the wheel, Cuthbert. You can drive more rapidly than I. We must make a swift journey.”

The coupe pulled away. Sir Ernest went back into the house, accompanied by Lewsham and Delka. The Shadow saw Craybaw give a final wave from within the car. Half a minute later, the light went out in front of the house. Hervey had evidently extinguished it.

Across the driveway, Sir Ernest’s phaeton was standing in an isolated spot. The Shadow glided in that direction and slid aboard the trim car. Sir Ernest had not locked it; hence The Shadow saved considerable delay. Nevertheless, he took time to glide down a short slope, not putting the car into gear until he had coasted almost to the driveway entrance.

The Shadow knew Cuthbert for a rapid driver, and the chauffeur had gained a few minutes’ start.

Nevertheless, his speed could not have matched the rate at which The Shadow traveled, once he gained the road to Hayward’s Heath. The Shadow was determined to close the distance between himself and the car ahead.

The smooth motor was noiseless, even at high speed. The phaeton clipped the mileage, for road crossings were few and well apart. Nevertheless, the start that Cuthbert had gained proved a long one.

Guided by his memory of the road map, The Shadow arrived at Hayward’s Heath without overtaking the coupe.

Wheeling about, The Shadow began to retrace his course. He was working upon a definite conjecture; one that caused him to increase speed after he had ridden a short way. Rounding a curve in the return road, The Shadow gained the answer that he sought.

Right ahead was the coupe, coming back from Hayward’s Heath! Yet The Shadow had taken the one road that Craybaw would have chosen and he had not passed the light car on the way. The conclusion was obvious. The coupe had not continued to Hayward’s Heath. Somewhere along the road, it had swung off upon one of many side lanes, while on its original journey. That had occurred early in the pursuit.

After a brief pause at some unknown spot, the coupe had begun its return, only to have The Shadow catch its trail.

That much accomplished, The Shadow slackened speed. He let the coupe reach Craybaw’s well ahead of him. When The Shadow piloted the phaeton softly into the driveway, he saw the coupe standing by the entrance. Craybaw was going up the house steps with Hervey, who had put on the lights. A moment later, both were inside. The lights went out.

EASING the phaeton past the coupe, The Shadow parked it in the secluded corner of the driveway, confident that no one had detected its absence. Afoot, he circled the house and came to a door that led into the conservatory. The lights were out; apparently all had gone inside to escape the increasing chill.

Softly entering the conservatory, The Shadow found the house door ajar. From the darkness, he peered into the illuminated living room, where Hervey had lighted a fire in a huge grate. Craybaw was standing there, rubbing his hands for warmth.

A definite change had come over the managing director of Rudlow, Limited — one that The Shadow detected promptly, for he could see Craybaw’s face against the firelight. His stubbly hair was somewhat tousled; his skin lacked a trifle of its ruddiness. His eyes, moreover, showed an unnatural sparkle against the glow from the fireplace.

Craybaw was a man who appeared slightly shrunken. His manner was nervous and restless; his eyes were quick as they darted sharp looks at the other persons with him. The Shadow caught one puzzled look upon the face of Sir Ernest Jennup. Then Sidney Lewsham registered doubt. Craybaw curbed his restlessness.

“Come, Delka!” he exclaimed, his voice carrying a natural tone. “How is it in London? Any news concerning The Harvester?”

“None,” returned Delka, gruffly. “All I can report is a satisfactory check on Selbrock and the Rajah of Delapore.’”

“And Ranworthy?”

“All right, so far as the India Office knows. I inquired there. They know a few facts about him. All tally.”

Sir Ernest and Sidney Lewsham eased back in their chairs. Craybaw’s return to natural form had allayed their alarm. Then came an unexpected episode. It began when Hervey entered with a stack of papers.

“For you to sign, sir,” stated the house man. “So that Cuthbert can post them in time for the last mail.”

Craybaw wheeled angrily. His eyes flashed; almost with a glare.

“Why do you bring the letters here?” he stormed. “I can sign them in my study!”

“But it is customary, sir. You told me earlier that I should bring the letters to you.”

“I have changed my mind about it. Take them away.”

“You said that two of them were important, sir—”

“Take them away!”

Hervey hesitated; then turned and obeyed. Craybaw’s glare ended. He turned apologetically to his guests.

“Hervey’s idea of importance is ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Important letters! Bah! None of them are of consequence!”

Sir Ernest lifted his eyebrows.

“Not even, the letter to the Berlin shippers?” he inquired. “The one that you mentioned at dinner?”

Craybaw did not answer for a moment. His fists clenched; then opened.

“I had forgotten that one,” he remarked. “Perhaps I should have it posted. No — on second thought, it needs correction. I shall take it to the office in the morning.”

Hervey returned.

“Shall I have Cuthbert put the coupe away, sir?” he inquired. “He is still waiting at the front.”

“Cuthbert is not in the car,” put in Craybaw, bluntly. “I left him at Hayward’s Heath. He asked if he might go into London. I told him he could take the train from there.”

“When will he return, sir?”

“In a few days. He needed a short vacation, so I granted one to him.”

LEWSHAM was looking toward Delka, who was studying Craybaw. The man by the fireplace produced a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“I have acquired a slight chill,” asserted Craybaw. “Due, perhaps, to all this worry. You will pardon my actions, gentlemen. Frankly, I am overwrought by worry.”

“Perhaps it would be wise for us to leave for London,” suggested Sir Ernest. “You must rest, Craybaw. Tomorrow is an important day.”

“I shall be quite fit by morning. No, no, gentlemen; I would prefer that you stay here. For the night, if possible. The fog must be thick there; driving would prove abominable. Am I right, Delka?”

“It’s turned into a pea-souper,” acknowledged Delka. “A bad one. I only hope that it will let up before morning.”

“Turning out as you predicted, Craybaw,” laughed Sir Ernest. “Remember? At the bridge?”

“What’s that?” Craybaw snapped the question. “At the bridge?”

“When you spoke about the fog—”

“Yes. Of course. I did not quite catch your question, Sir Ernest. Gentlemen, I insist that you remain all night. We can drive up to London in the morning, in Chief Lewsham’s car.”

“In my car?” queried Lewsham, surprised.

“Do you mean my phaeton?” queried Sir Ernest.

“Of course,” replied Craybaw, in an annoyed tone. “What has come over me? Really, I am not myself since this chill struck me.”

He turned to Hervey, who was standing in the doorway. The house man looked perplexedly toward his master.

“Scotch and soda,” ordered Craybaw. “It should prove a remedy for the chill. Fetch it, Hervey, with tumblers for all of us. Cigars, gentlemen? Hervey, where is the box of cigars?”

“You never keep boxes of cigars, Mr. Craybaw. I can bring some coronas from the humidor—”

“That is what I meant. The coronas. I thought I had left some loose ones about. Very well, Hervey. Bring us a supply.”

Seating himself, Craybaw regained composure by half closing his eyes. Sir Ernest decided to remain at the house; Lewsham and Delka also agreed, after the latter had added a few details about the heaviness of the evening fog.

Hervey arrived with drinks. Craybaw came to life and ordered him to put away the coupe and the phaeton. Hervey requested the keys to the garage; Craybaw fumbled in his pocket, produced a bunch and told the house man to pick out the right ones.

Lewsham mentioned that he and Sir Ernest had talked to Delka about tomorrow’s plans. In so doing, the chief constable reviewed some of the conversation that had been held earlier in the evening. Craybaw, sipping at his drink, warmed up to the discussion. His manner became more natural. He decided that his chill was passing.

A clock was chiming half past ten. Lewsham, noting the time, began to reconsider his decision. He asked when the last train left; Craybaw shifted the question to Hervey. The house man stated that the last up train departed from High Brooms at two minutes after eleven.

“We could still make it,” mused Lewsham. “Fog seldom delays the railways.”

“Stay here,” insisted Craybaw. “Sir Ernest will see to it that you reach your office at the accustomed hour.”

“Very well,” agreed Lewsham, in a tone of final decision.

SILENTLY, The Shadow moved from the sun porch. Gaining the lawn, he took a short-cut past the house, across to a gate. From there, he strode briskly in the direction of High Brooms station, sensing his direction, choosing paths that he knew must be short cuts.

By the time he neared the station, he was divesting himself of cloak and slouch hat. Reaching the shrubbery, he regained his briefcase. He drew out his overcoat and his fedora hat; then stuffed the other garments into the bag. A few moments later, he was hurrying to the station platform, just as the up train for London made its arrival.

It was Lamont Cranston who soon was seated alone in the seclusion of a smoking compartment, riding into London. The whispered laugh that came from the lips of the American millionaire was, however, a reminder of his true identity. The Shadow had reason to be mirthful.

The Shadow had divined The Harvester’s game. He knew where the master crook could be found. He understood the new part that the superman of crime had chosen to play. There were details, however, to be settled. The Shadow preferred to wait.

For The Harvester was shrewd. Too clever to wither if confronted with accusations. Moreover, he was the central figure of a dangerous crew. Small-fry though his henchmen were, they had proven themselves murderers in the past. They should not be allowed to remain at large.

Even before his first skirmish with The Harvester, The Shadow had decided that the master crook should be delivered to the law, under circumstances which would leave no doubt as to his ways of crime. The Harvester had nearly been trapped in the perpetration of a criminal act at the Moravia. The Shadow intended to give him new opportunity to thrust his head into a tightening noose.

The oddity of Justin Craybaw’s strange behavior was no riddle to The Shadow. The change in Craybaw had taken place during that trip from Tunbridge Wells to Hayward Heath, a journey which had never been completed. Something had happened upon the road before The Shadow could arrive to prevent it.

There was a chance that new murder had entered the game. If so, it could not be rectified. But if The Harvester had chosen to spare life, the rescue of any innocent person could wait until the morrow.

For The Shadow, to be sure of positive success, had one more task to perform tonight; and duty lay in London. That accomplished, the last vestige of The Harvester’s deception would be ended.

The Shadow knew.