The London Crimes

CHAPTER XVII. DELKA FINDS A CLUE

IT was a gloomy group that assembled in Justin Craybaw’s study, a half hour later. Sidney Lewsham was the man in charge. He listened to the story told by Eric Delka and Sir Ernest Jennup. Then came the reports of others.

Cruising cars had found no one near the vicinity of the house. Airplanes had lost out through poor visibility. The one that had landed had risen again to lead the others back to Croydon. Darkness had covered The Harvester’s flight.

“We have facts,” decided Lewsham, “but they are not sufficient. Our only hope is this: The Harvester may have some hide-away close by. It is our task to find it.”

“I agree, chief,” put in Delka. “It is likely that swift work was done last night, when The Harvester supplanted Craybaw. Crooks must have been close. What is more; those gardeners came from somewhere near at hand.”

Upon sudden impulse, Delka went to the desk drawer. Yanking it open, he found crumpled papers. With a chuckle, he spread them upon the desk. Here were the notations that he had seen that morning.

“The Harvester wrote this!” exclaimed Delka. “Look! It’s like a schedule. What’s this? Twin Trees, two and one half; cottage, one.”

Looking about, Delka spied Hervey. The house man had been loosened from bondage in the kitchen.

Delka showed him the notes. Hervey’s eyes lighted.

“Twin Trees is a lane!” he exclaimed. “Two and one half miles from here. Let me see — the lane — yes, it is nearly a mile in length, with a cottage at the end of it.”

“Take us there,” ordered Lewsham. “At once.”

Leaving a few men at the house, the squads set out.

AS they passed along the road that led toward Hayward’s Heath, keen eyes spied the motor cars. The Shadow was counting the vehicles. He knew which must be the last, for he calculated that one car would be left at Craybaw’s.

The final car slowed for a turn. The Shadow gained the rear bumper. He rode along until the car had passed midway along the Twin Trees Lane. There The Shadow dropped away. Soon the automobile stopped.

Lewsham was spreading his men about, their object to surround the cottage. When the men deployed, The Shadow moved forward. He had an objective which he knew the others would skirt — the glade where he had met the dogs that morning.

By taking a direct course, The Shadow was first to reach his vantage point. He waited under cover of the trees. He was listening for the hounds, ready to draw them should they begin to bark. Near to the cottage, he saw one of the dogs. The Shadow approached.

Luck spoiled the game. From somewhere in back of the cottage came a muffled grunt. One member of the closing cordon had stumbled into a ditch. The hounds began to bark. Quickly, The Shadow issued a low, eerie whistle. The dogs stood still; then moved toward the glade.

The Shadow had curbed the hounds; but they had given the alarm. Searchlights gleamed suddenly from windows of the cottage. The glares revealed the officers from London, amplified by local constables.

Shouts from within the cottage; men sprang out into the darkness.

Under the searchlights, these defenders were in darkness. They began an unexpected fire from the edges of the front porch. The Shadow heard the starting clatter of a submachine gun. He saw the flashes as bullets streamed from the muzzle.

The Shadow’s automatics roared from the glade, while the hounds quivered at his feet. An oath came from the porch as the machine gun fire ceased. Then a groan. Men deserted a crippled companion and dashed beyond the cottage.

A motor roared. A swift sedan sped suddenly out from an old driveway, to run the gantlet of the lane.

This time, the Scotland Yard men were behind stone walls. The Shadow’s timely fire had saved them from one machine-gun barrage. They expected another; it blasted uselessly from the sedan.

Again, The Shadow’s guns were speaking; but trees forestalled his efforts. Like grim sentinels in the darkness, they received the bullets intended for the sedan. The car sped onward, followed by shots along the line. Scotland Yard men were starting a pursuit.

Up the lane, the other cars formed a partial barricade, which fleeing crooks avoided by a sharp half circuit. The men in the cars had dropped away for shelter. Their revolver shots spurred the sedan to swifter flight. Leaping back to their cars, officers wheeled the machines and began chase.

Their swift cars contained machine guns also. Chances were that they would overtake their prey. Roaring through the night, pursued and pursuers whizzed in the direction of Hayward’s Heath.

Meanwhile, those about the cottage invaded.

The Shadow watched from darkness; for the glitter of the searchlights was lost when it struck the thick-treed glade. He could see lights within the cottage. Then came exclamations. Through the window of an upstairs room, The Shadow saw men raising a figure that was bound and gagged. Cloth was ripped from the rescued prisoner’s face. The light showed the pale face of Justin Craybaw.

Rescuers helped the prisoner down to the porch. Others appeared, guiding another released captive.

This was Cuthbert. The chauffeur had been found in a room on the opposite side of the house. The Shadow watched the Scotland Yard men take the prisoners toward the lane. One car had remained there.

Officers remained at the cottage. The Shadow spoke to the dogs and the hounds roamed gingerly forward to make friends with the newcomers. The Shadow skirted back through the woods. He heard the last car rumble toward the main road. He circled to the lane.

WHEN he neared the outlet, The Shadow paused. A local constable had remained on duty, beneath a light that marked the main road. While The Shadow waited, the sound of approaching cars was audible.

One machine rolled up and stopped. It was a Scotland Yard car.

“Back to the house,” stated the constable. “That’s where Chief Lewsham has gone. The cottage is in the hands of the law. The prisoners are freed.”

“They found Justin Craybaw?” The eager voice from the car was Tunning’s.

“They did that,” replied the constable. “And they have rescued his man Cuthbert, the chauffeur.”

“We have news, too,” stated Tunning. “Dawsett’s car bagged the one that sped away. Fairly cluttered it with bullets.”

“And the men in it?”

“We found two of them. The sedan was stalled at Hayward’s Heath. But neither was The Harvester.”

“What became of him, inspector?”

“We don’t know,” growled Tunning. “He could have dropped off somewhere, to gain a car of his own. Or he might have boarded a train somewhere in or around Hayward’s Heath.”

“Deuce take the rogue!”

“The blighter is incredible. Sergeant Dawsett reported up to London after he found the dead men in their car. But The Harvester has slipped us.”

A second car had come up behind Tunning’s. It was Dawsett’s. The two vehicles moved onward. The constable began a steady pace, shaking his head. Stopping, he stared speculatively in the direction of Hayward’s Heath.

He was thinking of The Harvester, and his opinion was that Scotland Yard had failed when the crook had managed to slip away after the chase. The constable’s decision was that the job should have been left to the local forces that patrolled and knew the vicinity of Tunbridge Wells.

Yet while he mused, the constable was revealing his own inefficiency. Directly behind him passed a black-clad shape that he would have seen had he thought to turn about. Yet the constable’s inefficiency was excusable. This passer was a personage far more incredible than the elusive Harvester.

The Shadow was gaining the main road. He passed from the lamp glare before the constable wheeled.

He was gone when the man resumed his pacing. The Shadow’s destination was the one that the cars had chosen. He was going back to Justin Craybaw’s.

ALL patrol had ceased about the grounds when The Shadow arrived there. Nearing the trees, The Shadow moved beneath them and risked a flashlight glimmer in an upward direction. He spied his knapsack, one strap dangling. Reaching for a bough, he drew himself upward and regained the knapsack.

Stowing away cloak and hat, The Shadow rested the knapsack upon his arm. He retrieved his walking stick from beneath the steps to the conservatory. His shoes crunched the gravel as he walked toward the front door of the house.

Lights were burning above the doorway. The Shadow was challenged when he came within their focus.

A Scotland Yard man demanded to know the visitor’s identity. The Shadow looked curiously about, then smiled in the characteristic manner of Lamont Cranston.

“I presume that Chief Lewsham is here?” he questioned. “And Inspector Delka?”

“They are,” returned the man at the door. “Do you have business with them?”

“I should like to speak with them. My name is Lamont Cranston.”

The guardian had evidently heard mention of the name, for his eyes opened. He nodded and motioned toward the door.

“You may go in, sir,” he declared, “and announce yourself. I believe that they were about to begin a search for you.”

The Shadow entered. As he crossed the threshold, he still wore his quiet smile. He had reason to believe that his entry would cause surprise — a conjecture that was to prove correct, particularly because of his costume.

But that surprise, The Shadow knew, would prove mild when compared to one that might occur before he left. For The Shadow had reason to believe that The Harvester, himself, would be revealed within these walls before the evening had ended.

Boldness was The Harvester’s forte. In keeping with his game, he would have reason to return to a scene of final crime. That, The Shadow knew.