The London Crimes

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW BY DAY

DAWN showed lessened fog in London. The threat of a prolonged pea-souper had been banished by spasmodic breezes in the final hours of night. The mists, however, had not lifted from the neighborhood of the Thames when an early morning train crossed the railway bridge outside of the Cannon Street station.

Aboard that Southern Railway local was an outbound passenger, the same who had come up by last night’s train from High Brooms. The Shadow, garbed in walking clothes, was riding southward. With him, he was carrying a knapsack. Any one who claimed an acquaintance with Lamont Cranston would have been surprised to observe the adventurous millionaire bound on so plebeian an excursion.

The Cannon Street train required a change of cars at Tunbridge, three miles before High Brooms. Rather than wait for the connecting local, The Shadow left Tunbridge station as soon as he had arrived there.

Provided with a map of the terrain, he chose a cross-country route toward Craybaw’s. It was not quite eight o’clock when he arrived at the back of the country estate.

Passing through a wicket, The Shadow took a circuitous course that brought him to a cluster of trees close by Craybaw’s conservatory. Parking his knapsack, The Shadow approached the high side of the porch; pausing beneath the windows, he caught the tones of cautious voices.

“Odd about Craybaw.” The comment was in Lewsham’s voice. “He has been behaving differently, Delka, ever since he took that short journey last night.”

“He appears to be irritable this morning,” returned Delka. “Why should he have quibbled so much with that chap Hervey?”

“About the landscape gardeners?”

“Yes. Hervey reminded him that he had already contracted for workmen next week. Yet Craybaw insisted that a new lot should begin here to-day.”

“Where is Craybaw now?”

“In his study, mulling about. When I was there, he thrust away some papers in a lower drawer of the desk.”

“Letters or documents?”

“Nothing but penciled notations. He pulled them out later, crumpled them and tossed them back.”

“Probably something inconsequential. Nevertheless, Delka, you are to take complete charge of Craybaw. Do not let him out of your sight until this spell has ended. Should he become ill, stay with him.”

“Do you think that some threat has been made against him?”

“Possibly. Or it may be something more serious. I have been wondering about that chauffeur of his, Cuthbert. By the way, Delka, it is time for us to be starting. Better jog inside and find out what arrangements have been made.”

Delka went into the house. The Shadow was about to move away when he heard a new voice. Sir Ernest Jennup had come out to the conservatory and was speaking to Sidney Lewsham.

“Craybaw’s condition troubles me,” declared Sir Ernest. “Unquestionably, the man is no longer himself. He acts as though a huge burden lies upon his shoulders.”

“Does he appear ill?”

“Yes and no. He insists that he must go into the office; yet he says he is willing to relax after this business is finished.”

“Should he summon a physician?”

“He will not hear of it.”

The conversation ended. Delka was coming directly to the conservatory. The Shadow could hear Craybaw’s voice. The man’s mood had certainly improved, for his words were cheery.

“I have come out of the doldrums,” declared Craybaw. “Nothing like fresh country air for a tonic, provided it is in the morning. Night is bad, when the atmosphere chills; particularly at this season.”

“You feel improved?” queried Sir Ernest.

“Positively,” returned Craybaw. “If you are agreeable, Sir Ernest, we might start for the city at once. I feel sure that we are all desirous of a prompt arrival.”

THE four men left the conservatory. The Shadow moved back to the clustered trees. From among the trunks of the tiny grove, he saw the Londoners emerge from the front door and enter Sir Ernest’s phaeton. The long car rolled from the driveway.

Finding a path to the front road, The Shadow took it and soon reached the highway over which he had driven the night before, when following the coupe to Hayward’s Heath. Carrying knapsack and swinging his walking stick, The Shadow had no reason to avoid the notice of passers. No one would have recognized him as a recent guest at Craybaw’s.

Glancing at a road map, The Shadow paused to make a final estimate of distances. All along the edge of the map were computations that he had completed during the morning’s railway journey. The Shadow had calculated with exactitude.

He had known the average speed at which Cuthbert drove, for he had watched the speedometer when the chauffeur had taken him to High Brooms. He knew also the speed with which he, himself, had driven from Craybaw’s home to Hayward’s Heath. Furthermore, he had gauged to a matter of seconds the amount of start that the coupe had gained over the phaeton.

Since he had not passed the coupe on the road, The Shadow knew that it had left the route at some unknown point. That point, according to his computations; must lie within three miles from Craybaw’s house. The map showed only five logical lanes within that space.

The Shadow rejected the first, which lay fairly close to Craybaw’s; also the second, for it was beyond this lane that The Shadow had picked up the coupe’s trail on the return trip. The possibilities had been definitely reduced to three.

The Shadow was walking along the right side of the road, against the traffic. This was hardly necessary, for no cars had appeared upon the road. He reached the third lane, more than two miles from Craybaw’s. He paused there. This was the first of his three possibilities.

The road widened somewhat at the lane; and a curve made the crossing dangerous. It was a spot at which Cuthbert would necessarily have slowed the coupe, when turning left.

At the side of the road, The Shadow found deep dust, scruffed by footmarks. At one spot, he located tire tracks that could have been from the coupe. These formed an inverted V — a proof that the car had stopped at the very entrance to the lane; then had backed.

MOVING along the lane, The Shadow found similar tracks in the dust. While he was examining the marks, he heard the rumble of an approaching motor. Turning about, The Shadow hurried back to the main road. He was walking along it when the roar of the car came from the mouth of the crooked lane.

Turning about, The Shadow came strolling toward the lane, like a chance pedestrian bound upon a hike.

A light truck rolled from the lane; aboard it were half a dozen workmen, who were clad in old clothes.

They eyed The Shadow as the truck turned in the direction of Craybaw’s. In stolid fashion, The Shadow kept on walking.

The rumble of the car faded. The Shadow stopped his stroll. He knew that he had quelled any suspicions on the part of the men in the truck; but he had formed his own conclusions about their identity. They were the workmen expected at Craybaw’s; but they were not local rustics. The Shadow knew faces when he saw them.

Despite their garb, those men were thugs of the type that The Harvester had used before. They were of the same ilk as the ruffians who had been aboard the up train from Plymouth. They matched the crowd that had backed The Harvester on his raid at the Moravia.

Between the dust and the truck, The Shadow had the complete story. Last night, the coupe had been waylaid. Cuthbert had been halted by men at the lane entrance. They had forced the chauffeur to drive the coupe down the lane, carrying Justin Craybaw with him.

The map showed the lane to be one mile in length. Somewhere in that stretch, these minions of crime had their headquarters. After they had captured the coupe, The Harvester himself had driven back to the house. At present, he was being accepted as none other than Justin Craybaw.

Taking to the lane, The Shadow strolled along, watching for new signs of interest. At the end of a half mile, he passed an elbow in the road and came to the front of a tumble-down cottage. The gate was broken; an old beagle saw the stroller from the porch. With a bound, the dog jumped to the path and set up barking.

An old woman appeared at the door. Wagging a broom, she cackled at the dog; then came down to the gate. The beagle subsided; wagging its tail, it came to make friend with the tall stranger at whom it had barked.

“It’s good morning to you, sir,” greeted the old countrywoman. “‘Tis not often that Pauper here sees wayfarers along this road. Ah! ‘Tis a bad dog he is, at times.”

Pauper was apparently impressed by the criticism, for he sniffed at The Shadow’s hand and stood quiet while the stroller patted him.

“But it’s harmless he is, at heart,” added the woman, looking at the dog. “Not like the hounds that dwell at the end of the lane. I’d advise ye, sir, to be cautious when you have gone further. The old cot below here is not a good place to venture.”

“Merely on account of the dogs?” inquired The Shadow.

“And the men what own them,” confided the woman. “A bad sort, they are. It was up to devilment they were, last night; and this morning some went past here. Just a little time ago, sir. Peacefullike, in their motor wagon; but it’s not my way to trust them.”

The Shadow thanked the woman for the advice. He was about to proceed, when she offered him a bottle of milk for tuppence, to carry with his lunch kit. The Shadow made the purchase and gave the woman a silver half crown, adding that he expected no change. He left the gate, with the woman still gasping her thanks at such surprising generosity.

NEARING the end of the lane, The Shadow left the road and climbed a little hummock. From the slight hill, he gained the view that he wanted. Secluded from the end of the lane, because of intervening trees, was a fair-sized cottage. A path through a side glade offered a convenient means of approach.

The Shadow took the path. He had neared the cottage when he encountered the dogs of which the woman had spoken. Two large hounds began to bark; then they bounded through the furze and came upon the intruder.

The Shadow stood motionless; the hiss that came from his lips was like a compelling command. The dogs stopped short.

Speaking in a low, strange tone, The Shadow approached. In the gloom beneath the trees, his eyes burned with a fiery glow that the dogs discerned. One hound whimpered; the other tried to bay, but no sound came from its quivering throat. Both beasts cowered when The Shadow reached them.

The Shadow’s manner changed. Walking stick tucked beneath his arm, he stroked a dog with each hand, treating them in the same friendly fashion that he had shown the beagle. The dogs ceased their cringe.

They accepted The Shadow as a master.

A whistle from the cottage. Then a gruff voice; one man speaking to another.

“Where did them hounds go?”

“Into the thicket. Started up a fox, maybe.”

“A fox? There’s none of ‘em hereabouts. They turned up a grouse, more likely.”

Again the whistle. The hounds were loath to leave. They gazed at The Shadow, with inquiring eyes. He gave a low command: “Home.” The dogs hesitated. The Shadow made a gesture with his hand. Quietly, his canine friends trotted back toward the cottage.

“Here they come,” were the words that reached The Shadow. “Couldn’t have been any prowler in there. The hounds would have tore him to ribbons. Go tell Dokey that it was a false alarm.”

“Where is he? In the kitchen?”

“Sure. Cooking lunch for that bloke upstairs. We’ll have our own grub later.”

The voices faded. The Shadow returned through the thicket. Skirting back to the lane, he plucked the brambles from his knickers. A smile showed on his masklike features. The Shadow had found out details that he wanted. He knew that there were still three men at the cottage; that the place was serving as a prison, due to the reference to “the bloke upstairs.”

HALF an hour later, The Shadow arrived back at Craybaw’s. From the trees beside the conservatory, he spied the pretended landscape gardeners at work near the rear of the grounds. They were trimming hedges, while Hervey, the house man, watched them.

The Shadow took this opportunity to enter the conservatory. He went through to Craybaw’s study.

There he opened the desk drawer and found some crumpled sheets of paper. He studied them and found penciled comments, arranged in schedule formation.

One name on the paper was “Twin Trees,” the name of the lane where The Shadow had been. Other words were “London.” and “Rudlow’s,” with hours and minutes checked after them. Some notations had been crossed out; others had question marks beside them. The last references stated: “Twin Trees, 2 1/2; cottage 1”; these were references to the mileage.

A soft laugh from The Shadow’s lips. He dropped the crumpled papers in the drawer; then turned to the old safe in the corner. After brief experiment, he opened the strong box, finding the combination with ease. Inside were bundles of papers and filing boxes that contained various documents.

A brief inspection showed that none were important. The opened safe, however, inspired The Shadow to another idea, for he sat down at the desk and inscribed a note, which he sealed in an envelope. He went to the safe and picked out a filing box. He removed the papers, put his envelope at the bottom, then replaced them.

Closing the safe, The Shadow turned the dial, then started from the study. He heard Hervey entering from the conservatory, so he stepped into a nook beneath the main stairs, just outside of the study door.

Hervey went past; The Shadow continued through the living room. He went out through the conservatory and reached the tiny grove.

Comfortably stretched beneath the trees, The Shadow indulged in another smile. It was not yet noon; there was time to rest and gain a doze to make up for a night of very little sleep. For, The Shadow was prepared for developments that would not take place until later in the day.

He had guessed the key to crime; he had divined where the final stroke would come. Here at the home of Justin Craybaw; there was no need to travel elsewhere.

Often The Shadow sought action, and was forced to set out to find it. To-day he was confident that action would be brought to him.

A curious turn of events; but one that fitted with The Shadow’s knowledge of The Harvester.