The London Crimes

CHAPTER VIII. DOWN FROM LONDON

IT was three o’clock the next afternoon. Harry Vincent was seated in his room at the Addingham Hotel, hunched in front of a gas-log fire. It was a raw day in London; creeping haze was token that a fog might set in after nightfall.

The transom above Harry’s door was open; he was listening for any sounds from across the hall.

Yesterday, Harry had entered Selbrock’s room while the man was out. To-day, Selbrock had not gone out. At intervals, however, Harry had heard brief clicks from the portable typewriter. That was a sound which pleased Harry.

For yesterday, Harry had performed a definite job. He had removed the roller from Selbrock’s typewriter. In its place he had inserted a duplicate, of the exact appearance. A roller suitable for a Cavalier No. 4, yet one which had already begun to perform a required function. That substituted roller was a device of The Shadow’s recent invention.

Footsteps in the hallway. A knock. Moving to the door, Harry edged it open. He saw a round-hatted messenger tapping at the door of Selbrock’s room. Harry watched; the door opened. Selbrock, in shirtsleeves, made his appearance. He was puffing at his briar pipe.

Selbrock received the message, tipped the messenger, and ripped open the envelope. He did not move in from the doorway, hence Harry was able to watch the expression that appeared upon the man’s genial face.

Selbrock appeared to be delighted. He waved the message in his hand, then pounced back into the room. Harry saw him open a suitcase and bring out a thick, squatty book with paper covers. It was a Bradshaw, the British railway guide.

Still holding his message, Selbrock consulted the time-tables. He tossed the Bradshaw into the suitcase, donned his coat and vest, then thrust his message into his coat pocket. Harry saw him move out of sight beyond the opened door.

Then came rapid clicks of the typewriter. Soon Selbrock reappeared, sealing a message in an envelope.

He threw a few clothes into the suitcase and hurried from the room. His face still registered an expression of hearty pleasure.

SOON after Selbrock had gone, Harry produced the typewriter roller. Crossing the hall, he opened the unlocked door and went to Selbrock’s machine. He removed the duplicate roller and inserted the one that belonged to the typewriter. Returning to his own room, Harry tugged at the end of the duplicate cylinder and pulled it loose.

From within, he brought out a most ingenious device. It was a spiral coil of paper, wound about a central core, that was loosely weighted so that one portion would always keep to the bottom. The roller, itself, was the thinnest sort of metal shell; but at front and back were strips of thicker metal, attached by end projections to the weighted core. Hence these strips always held their position, despite the coiling of the paper within.

The metal strip at the front showed a slight space between itself and a taut line of carbon ribbon. The paper coiled between the ribbon and the strip of metal. Hence, in typing, Selbrock had always had his keys encounter a solid-backed portion of the roller.

Most ingenious was the fact that the paper coil started beneath the stretch of carbon; but in uncoiling, it ran above it; that is, between the carbon and the shell of the roller. Hence, once a portion of the paper had received impressions from the keys, that part of the coil no longer came under the carbon. New paper replaced it as long as the coil unwound.

Succeeding impressions naturally had to be driven through the increasing thickness of the coils; but that fact was offset by the remarkable thinness of the paper.

Hence Harry, as he unrolled the coil, discovered a complete record of everything that Selbrock had typed since yesterday. All of the man’s notes had been brief; most of them were merely to tradesmen, ordering them to hold certain goods until Selbrock had funds available. The final note, however, was more illuminating.

It was addressed to Rudlow, Limited, and stated merely that Selbrock had received a telegram from an old friend who was in England; that he was leaving London but would be back the next day. The few sentences, however, gave no clue to Selbrock’s destination.

Harry brought out his own Bradshaw and began to thumb the pages. Twenty minutes of futile effort soon convinced him that his task was hopeless. There was no way of guessing which of the many London railway depots Selbrock had chosen. Harry’s only hope was to reconnoiter.

Leaving his room, he went downstairs. Near the door of the lobby, he encountered one of the Addingham’s page boys.

“I am looking for a friend of mine,” informed Harry. “A gentleman named Selbrock, who is stopping here. Could you find out where he has gone?”

The boy volunteered to gain the information. He returned shortly to state that Selbrock had taken a motor cab, otherwise a taxi. The boy added that he had driven to Euston Station, the terminus of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway. Not an economical course, according to the boy, for his opinion was that Selbrock could have saved cab tariff and traveled much more satisfactorily by the inner rail of the Metropolitan and District Lines.

THAT was a tip to Harry. With the Bradshaw bulging from his pocket, he hurried out of the hotel and headed for the Aldgate Station of the underground. Picturing the circle service of the tube, Harry forgot himself. He fancied the trains running on the right-hand tracks, as in America; for his brief sojourn in London had not sufficed to accustom him to the British system of trains on the left.

Thus Harry took the wrong side of the underground. Boarding a train, he settled back in the comfortable seat and chuckled at the elegance of this line when compared with New York subways. He referred to Bradshaw. Concentrating upon the trains of the L. M. E., he found that there was a four o’clock Restaurant Car Express, London to Liverpool, with through carriages to Carlisle. Calculating the time from Aldgate to Euston Station, Harry believed that he would make it. Then, glancing from the window of the underground train, he recognized a station and realized his mistake.

He had taken the long route from Aldgate and was already well along the circle! Thirty-five minutes from Aldgate to Euston, by the outer rail, which Harry had taken, instead of a mere dozen which the inner rail required. A glance at his watch told Harry that he would be too late to overtake Selbrock. That quest was finished.

MEANWHILE, The Shadow had encountered an odd situation in Mayfair. He had seen Jed Ranworthy appear suddenly from the apartment hotel, spring aboard a waiting cab and ride away. The Shadow, disguised as a chance stroller, had no opportunity to follow.

The Shadow strolled away. When he returned, it was in the guise of Cranston. He entered the apartment hotel and sent his card to the Rajah of Delapore. Barkhir, the Hindu, admitted him.

A few moments later, the rajah appeared. He seemed cordial, yet puzzled by the visit. In the quiet tone of Cranston, The Shadow explained.

“I expected to find Inspector Delka,” he stated. “He said that he might be here this afternoon.”

“You will probably find him at Rudlow’s,” returned the rajah. “I communicated with them, to-day, making final arrangements for my business. Delka was expected some time in the afternoon.”

“I shall proceed there. Very sorry, your excellency, to have disturbed you. I expected to make inquiry from your secretary.”

“Ranworthy is not here. He has gone out of London for the night. To Yarmouth, I believe.”

“Yarmouth? At this season?”

“It was not a pleasure trip,” smiled the rajah. “Word from some relative who is ill there.”

After leaving the rajah’s, The Shadow returned to his own abode near St. James Square. He consulted a Bradshaw and found that a through train left Liverpool Street Station for Yarmouth, shortly before five o’clock, via the London and Northeastern Railway.

That was the one which Ranworthy would probably take to reach his destination, on the east coast, at eight in the evening. But it did not explain his hasty departure, unless he had intended to do some shopping before train time.

There was not sufficient time to go to Liverpool Street, particularly because The Shadow had a telephone call to make in response to a message that awaited him. His call was to Harry Vincent.

From the agent, he learned of Lionel Selbrock’s departure, and of Harry’s theories on the same. That call concluded, The Shadow strolled from his quarters, hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to Threadneedle Street, where Rudlow, Limited, was located.

On the way, The Shadow considered the coincidental circumstances that had taken Lionel Selbrock and Jed Ranworthy from London. Each had received an urgent message; one from a friend, the other from a relative.

Selbrock had presumably departed for the northwest; Ranworthy for the northeast. But The Shadow had only Harry’s guess concerning Selbrock; and the rajah’s statement regarding Ranworthy. It was possible that Selbrock could have bluffed persons at the hotel; that Ranworthy could have deceived the rajah.

What was the connection between these occurrences? The thought brought a thin smile to The Shadow’s disguised lips. He was piecing the circumstances that had suddenly caused both himself and Harry Vincent to lose trace of persons whom they had been watching. The best way to find an answer was to study circumstances elsewhere. That was exactly what The Shadow intended to accomplish.

The ancient taxi was passing the Bank of England. The Shadow eyed the structure that housed England’s wealth, and the view made him think of The Harvester. Wealth was the supercrook’s stake. There might be opportunity for the hidden criminal to gain it, while the transactions of Rudlow, Limited, were in the making.

The taxi rolled along Threadneedle Street, to the north of the Lombard Street banking district. It came to a stop. The Shadow alighted and sought the offices of Rudlow, Limited. He was just in time to enter before the closing hour of five.

ANNOUNCING himself as Lamont Cranston, The Shadow was ushered into a quietly furnished room, where he found three men. One was Justin Craybaw, the managing director; the second, Sir Ernest Jennup. The third was a person whom The Shadow had not expected to find here: Sidney Lewsham, the chief constable of the C.I.D.

It was Craybaw who gave greeting.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cranston!” exclaimed the managing director. “Your arrival is most timely. We are about to set out for my country residence, near Tunbridge Wells. Can you accompany us?”

“You are going by train?” queried The Shadow.

“By motor,” replied Craybaw. “We shall travel in Sir Ernest’s phaeton. I should like to have you dine with us.”

“Agreed,” decided The Shadow. “With one proviso, however. I must be back in London quite early in the evening.”

“You may return by train,” said Craybaw. “I shall have my chauffeur, Cuthbert, carry you to the station in the coupe. The others will be staying late, since they expect Inspector Delka on the train which arrives at nine o’clock.”

“Very well.”

The group left Craybaw’s office. They went to the street and walked to a garage where Sir Ernest’s automobile was stationed. Sir Ernest took the wheel, with Craybaw beside him. The Shadow and Lewsham occupied the rear seat of the trim car.

“A quiet motor, this,” remarked Lewsham, leaning half from the car and eyeing the long hood. “Not a sound from underneath the bonnet, despite the high power of the vehicle.”

They were crossing a bridge that spanned the Thames. There, thick mist was spreading through the darkening gloom. Every indication marked the approach of a heavy fog. Lewsham looked upward, toward the smokiness that clustered the sky.

“We are in for a pea-souper,” prophesied the chief constable. “Fog so thick that one could cleave it with a knife!”

“I noticed those signs this morning,” put in Craybaw, from the front seat. “Even when I was coming up to town, riding past Waterloo into Charing Cross Station. You are correct, sir. The fog will prove dense tonight.”

Sir Ernest was silent at the wheel, piloting the long car southward toward the open road which led to Tunbridge Wells, some thirty-five miles from London. The Shadow, too, was silent. He was pondering upon a subject of deep concern.

Fog over London. A blanket of haze not unlike the smoke screen which The Harvester had created in regard to crime. Yet, with the coming of one fog, the other seemed to be clearing. Curious events were piecing themselves within The Shadow’s keen mind.

Unless previous circumstances were matters of pure chance, the answer to certain riddles would be forthcoming before this night was ended. To The Shadow, past events would control the future. Crime was clearing because the time was near when it would strike. By then, The Shadow hoped to hold the final key.