The London Crimes

CHAPTER XVI. THE HARVESTER REAPS

THE time element had been figured closely by Sidney Lewsham. The chief constable had known, when he left Rudlow’s, that The Harvester would reach Tunbridge Wells within twenty minutes after men from Scotland Yard had started their pursuit from London.

Almost at the exact minute of Lewsham’s calculation, Sir Ernest Jennup’s long phaeton nosed into the driveway of Justin Craybaw’s country home. Sir Ernest’s toot of the horn brought Hervey to the front steps.

It attracted other attention also — that of distant gardeners about the hedgerows. Furthermore, it drew the keen gaze of a solitary watcher who still rested in the little grove beside the conservatory. As if in answer to an expected signal, The Shadow arose and dropped aside his knapsack. It fell, opened, to the grass.

The car was obscured by the corner of the house. The workmen could not see the inner fringe of the trees. Quickly, The Shadow gained the conservatory and entered the house through the living room. He had found a hiding-place before the arrivals entered from the front.

The voice of Justin Craybaw sounded from the doorway. The tight-skinned man was calling over his shoulder to Hervey, who had remained by the phaeton at his order.

“Bring in that pigskin bag, Hervey,” was the order. “Take it to the study. Leave it beside my desk.”

Eyes watched as the supposed Craybaw and his two companions went into the living room. The Shadow was obscured behind a corner of the niche beneath the stairs. He saw Hervey go into the study, lugging the pigskin bag. The house man dropped the burden and came out again.

Hardly had he reached the main hall before The Harvester met him. The man who passed as Craybaw gave an order which both Sir Ernest and Delka could hear.

“Scotch and soda to my guests,” stated The Harvester. “Tell them that I shall return promptly, Hervey. I am going to the study for a few minutes.”

Stepping into the study, The Harvester closed the door behind him. The Shadow, peering from his darkened hiding-place, could see a cunning gleam upon the features of Justin Craybaw. The door, when it closed, did not come tightly shut. The Harvester left it ajar.

The Shadow edged forward from his hiding-place. He gained the door and peered into the study. While he watched The Harvester, he heard footsteps. Hervey was coming with tray and glasses. The Shadow moved back into the stairway niche.

He had no need to spy further. He had seen sufficient. Indeed, The Shadow had hardly regained his hiding-place before the study door opened and the figure of Craybaw emerged. This time, The Harvester was carrying the pigskin bag. He took it into the living room.

GLASSES were clinking when The Shadow moved toward the base of the stairs. From beside a huge newel post, he could hear the conversation in the living room. Hervey had gone. Craybaw’s voice was sounding with a note of harshness.

“Suppose we step out to the conservatory,” were the words. “The fresh air benefited me during the ride in the phaeton. It will be cool in the conservatory. By the way, Sir Ernest, would you be kind enough to carry this new bag of mine?”

Sir Ernest’s voice responded. The Shadow heard the men move to the conservatory. He followed into the living room. Peering from a vantage point, he could see beyond the windows. Gardeners were moving in from the hedges.

“Do you find the bag heavy?”

The query came in Craybaw’s tone. Sir Ernest replied.

“Amazingly so,” he affirmed. “I could not believe that it was an empty bag, had you not just bought it.”

“Lift it, Delka,” suggested The Harvester. “Place it upon the wickerwork table.”

Delka did so. He gave a surprised exclamation.

“That bag is not empty!” expressed the C.I.D. man. “I saw and handled it at the luggage shop. Did you have some other purchases put inside it?”

“In a sense, yes.”

The Shadow had come closer at The Harvester’s words. The living room was gloomy, for it was nearly sunset. Unseen, he eyed the group upon the porch. He could observe the evil curl that had formed upon The Harvester’s lips. The rogue’s face looked different from Craybaw’s.

“Yes,” hissed Craybaw. “That pigskin bag is well-filled. With spoils! To the value of four hundred and fifty thousand pounds!”

Sir Ernest came to his feet with Delka. Both were too late. From his hips, The Harvester had yanked forth revolvers. In the light of the glass-paned conservatory, he was covering his companions. Slowly, their hands came up. Delka gasped his understanding.

“The Harvester!”

A LAUGH from twisted lips.

“Yes,” gibed The Harvester. “In a new disguise. One that you all suspected; but did not fathom. I play the part of Justin Craybaw better than I imitated you, Sir Ernest. This was a role which I had been practicing for a long while.

“You thought that I was in the game. No wonder. My lieutenant, Markin— otherwise Captain Darryat — had made good progress in his various interviews when he mixed into the affairs of Rudlow, Limited. Darryat had told me all I needed, before he failed me in another issue.

“The part of Justin Craybaw was the one I chose to enact. It gave me access to the total funds — moneys, that never went into Rudlow’s vaults. Cash for which I purchased the pigskin bag. The Harvester has gained his final triumph. I have reaped my greatest crop.”

Sir Ernest Jennup was trembling with rage and chagrin. Eric Delka was taut, ready to spring upon The Harvester should occasion offer. The supercrook divined the intention. He snarled a warning:

“If you want death, Delka, you can have it! But if you stand where you are, you will not suffer. I have no intent to kill. Why should I?” The tone became one of contempt. “The pair of you are beggarly fools! I shall not fear you in the future.

“Look from the windows. See the men about the lawn. They are henchmen, ready at my call. Two have already bound Hervey, back in the kitchen. They have joined the others.

“I tried to kill you once, Delka. That was before I understood your full stupidity. I do not murder for love of it. Why should I waste bullets upon idiots?”

Delka’s face was angered, like Sir Ernest’s. Nevertheless, the C.I.D. man had been impressed by The Harvester’s words. Delka’s tenseness had lessened.

“You will be bound, but not gagged,” promised The Harvester. His face was distorted; but his manner calm. “You can shout your bloody heads off. It will not serve you. No one lives hereabouts. The telephone wires have been cut at my order.

“I shall have ample time to make my departure before you are discovered. Scotland Yard will arrive here later; probably not for several hours. Yet I would not care if it was this very minute. My plans are made.

“Before my men enter, let me mention a minor matter.” The Harvester edged to the conservatory window. The Shadow could see men moving up from the lawn. “It is about Justin Craybaw. He is still alive; so, for that matter, is Cuthbert. I had no need to dispose of them.

“That will be a task for you, Delka, to find those whom I have left behind. Prisoners of The Harvester, the reaper of the spoils. Too bad my hands are filled. I would open the bag for you and let you see what compact bundles those bank notes form.

“Unmarked money. Good anywhere. I saw to that, gentlemen. Remember” — The Harvester chuckled — “I was Justin Craybaw. Ah! Your jailors are arriving. Turn about, gentlemen, and face them. I bid you farewell.”

DELKA turned with Sir Ernest. They saw two men coming up to the rear door of the conservatory, each carrying a ready revolver. But Delka spied something else. One corner pane of glass, set against an outside shrub, served as a mirror because of its darkness. Through that reflected pane, Delka caught a glimpse of The Harvester behind him.

The man who looked like Craybaw had pocketed his guns. With leering face, he was reaching for the pigskin bag. An interval had come; a moment when Delka and Sir Ernest were uncovered by weapons.

Delka grabbed the opportunity.

With a cry to Sir Ernest, the Scotland Yard man spun about. He launched himself for The Harvester, pulling a revolver as he did so. Sir Ernest, after an instant’s falter, made a similar swing and sprang behind the man from Scotland Yard.

The Harvester saw it coming. With a quick fling, he sent the pigskin bag skidding to the front door of the conservatory. Yanking out a revolver, he twisted away from Delka; as the Scotland Yard man aimed, The Harvester clipped his chin with a free fist. Delka had forgotten that the rogue’s illness was feigned.

The Harvester had outmatched him.

Delka sprawled upon the floor. Sir Ernest, coming into the fray, went staggering from a second punch.

Their bodies had intervened between The Shadow and The Harvester. There was another reason, also, why The Shadow did not fire.

That concerned the two men from the rear door. They had reached the conservatory. Viciously, they were aiming for Delka and Sir Ernest, when they heard a fierce laugh from the door of the living room.

They wheeled to see The Shadow, framed in the portal.

A roar rattled the conservatory window as guns blasted in simultaneous fray. Revolver bullets whizzed wide, from muzzles that were rapidly aimed. But the slugs that sped from automatics were straight and withering. Crooks staggered as they leaped forward to fight The Shadow.

One man toppled; the other still kept on. He grappled with his foes as The Shadow swung out to meet him. Gun dropped, the rogue had gained a dying grip. That did not help The Harvester. He had bounded to the front of the conservatory. Looking back, he saw two forms locked in fray. He did not recognize Lamont Cranston.

Nor did he have time to wait, to deal with this foe. He did not even have opportunity to aim at Sir Ernest or Eric Delka, who were rising groggily from the floor. The Shadow’s right-hand automatic blasted from above the shoulder of The Harvester’s dying henchman.

It was like that fight at the Moravia; but on this occasion, The Harvester did not choose to wait. Bullets were cracking glass panes all about him, as The Shadow’s shots sped close. Like Darryat, The Harvester’s dying minion was serving his chief.

Moreover, The Harvester had gained his swag. Shouting a wild order to others on the lawn, he snatched up the pigskin bag and dived off for the cluster of trees beyond the conservatory.

The Shadow wrested free of the man who clutched him. Leaping over the body of the other, he sprang out through the rear door to deal with a new quartet of fighters.

The men were scattered on the lawn. They saw the figure that appeared by the house wall. Dropping behind terracelike slopes, they opened long-range fire. The Shadow’s responses zipped the turf beside them. One man was hit; he writhed and rolled to better cover.

Delka, on his feet, was still “punch drunk.” Yet he managed to shove a revolver into Sir Ernest’s fist and point to the door through which The Harvester had fled. Together, they took up the chase. They spied their quarry; he had ducked past the clump of trees and was dashing for the front road.

“The phaeton!” cried Sir Ernest.

THE HARVESTER must have heard the shout. Pausing suddenly, he ripped quick shots at the car, which was scarcely twenty paces from him. Front tires delivered answering explosions. The Harvester had found the broad treads of the wheels.

Savagely, Delka and Sir Ernest opened fire. The range was too great; The Harvester was nearing the front hedge. He must have scrambled through a thicket opposite, for when they reached the roadway, he was no longer to be seen.

Shots still roared from behind the conservatory. Delka remembered the lone fighter. He decided that it must be Hervey. He told Sir Ernest to come back with him. Reluctantly, the latter agreed.

As they turned, a car roared into view. It wheeled into the driveway. From it sprang Sidney Lewsham and a squad of Scotland Yard men.

Delka gave quick explanation. Lewsham ordered his men to scour for The Harvester. Delka and Sir Ernest dashed back toward the house. Already a sudden change had marked the fray upon the lawn. The Harvester’s four minions, including the wounded man, had risen and were taking to mad flight.

Other cars had appeared beyond distant hedgerows. Through gateways were pouring new reserves from Scotland Yard. The sun was down beyond a wooded hill; revolvers were stabbing wildly from the darkened streaks of the rolling lawn.

The Shadow had ceased fire. Crouched by the house wall, he watched the spreading fray. The Harvester’s tools were too desperate to risk capture. They were fighting to the death, unwilling to surrender. Shooting point-blank at the Scotland Yarders, they gave the latter no alternative. Riddling bullets sprawled the thugs in flight.

The Shadow moved quickly from the wall. He hurried past the conservatory. Approaching men spied him as he circled for the trees. Delka and Sir Ernest heard their shots. Cutting through the conservatory, they watched the Scotland Yard men begin new chase. They caught but a fleeting glimpse of a figure that reached the trees.

The Shadow had found his knapsack. From it, he tugged his black cloak and slouch hat. With a slinging toss, he sent the knapsack up into the trees, where it clung, lost among the boughs. Donning the cloak, he seemed to dwindle in the gloom of the tiny grove. His figure had faded toward a hedge before the Scotland Yard men arrived.

Airplanes were coming from the sky, circling low about the lawn. One swooped downward and made a landing on a level stretch of lawn. Sidney Lewsham, arriving from the front, dashed over to talk with the pilot.

Dusk was settling, with searchers everywhere. Yet The Harvester had made a get-away with the pigskin bag. The hunt was becoming fruitless. Nor could men with flashlights uncover that other unknown whom they had seen heading for the tiny grove.

Yards from the house, resting by a hedge where searchers had just scoured, The Shadow stood enshrouded in his cloak of black. The twilight breeze caught an echo of his whispered laugh. That tone denoted satisfaction, even though The Harvester had fled.

For The Shadow knew more than did those frantic hunters. He knew that The Harvester’s game was not yet through. Too bold to risk mere oblivion, The Harvester would return. Then would The Shadow seek the final laugh.