The Shadow Laughs

CHAPTER X IN THE FARMHOUSE

The conversation which had been cut off from Harry Vincent’s hearing continued long after he had gone. In fact, from the very moment of the interruption, it had assumed angles of great interest.

Harry had heard only the preliminaries. The real event began when the younger man entered into the details of his story. But there were no listeners in the vicinity when he reached that important point.

“I had to give him the rod,” the man said. “All the way down, I knew that would be the only way out.

“I listened in when he made that call from the Grand Central Terminal. I trailed him across New York and got on the same train to Philly. At the Pennsylvania Station.

“He got off at North Philly and took a cab. I hopped another taxi, but dropped off a few blocks away from the boarding house. Then I sneaked over to the place. When I caught Jarnow, he was spilling the dope to Henry Windsor. Those two shots I gave him sounded like a cannon.”

“Henry Windsor wasn’t wise to anything?” questioned the old man.

“Not a thing,” replied the self-admitted murderer. “He was soused. That helped. I came in the door of the house, and up the stairs without a hitch.

“Opening the door of the room was slow work. Jarnow must have put the key in his pocket; so I had luck with the skeleton key. But when he saw me sliding around the edge, closing the door behind me, I thought he was going to drop dead.

“Wish he had. It would have saved me trouble. I guess it was best the way it happened, though. Killed two birds with one stone by planting the goods on Henry.”

The old man shook his head.

“That may have been a mistake, Crull,” he said.

“What!” The young man’s exclamation showed astonishment. “You wanted him out of the way, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” came the querulous reply. “It will be great, if he goes to the chair.”

“Well, if they acquit him, we’re just where we started.”

“Granted. But suppose they give him twenty years, or life? Then he’ll be where it will be hard to get at him.”

“Birdie” Crull was silent. Evidently he had not considered that angle of the situation.

“That would be bad,” he said, at length. “But I don’t think it will be an in-between affair. The way things are in that town, they’ll railroad him, or he’ll get off.

“He has money, pull, and he was drunk. Three big factors. They either work for a man or against him. According to public sentiment.

“The way things are now, public sentiment will be hot. That second job I did has given them plenty to think about.”

“Yes, Crull,” objected the old man, “and it’s given me some worries, too. You went a lot further than I expected. I told you to flag Frank Jarnow, and to bring back that paper.”

“All right. I did it. There was only one way to fix him when I got there. I did it.”

“Yes. But you also planted the goods on Henry Windsor, which we had not considered.”

“I had to do it! It let me out. Where would any of us be if I hadn’t?”

“Maybe you’re right, there, Crull. Yes. You are right. It took all the mystery out of the affair. That was a good piece of business.

“It may cause difficulties in our plans, but it certainly kept matters quiet. But this Griffith business—”

“Was every bit as important,” interrupted Birdie Crull. “That fellow was keen. I’ve heard a lot about him. That’s why I stayed in town — to see if he was going on the case.

“I called up headquarters in the morning, and asked for him. Learned when he was coming in. Went up by the house, and saw him come out. When he headed for the morgue, I had to go ahead with it.”

“You have plenty of nerve, Crull,” said the old man, with a tone of admiration. “You are the man I have needed for a long time. If I had had you that last time — well, let’s talk about this. You believe it was necessary to finish Griffith?”

In reply, the murderer drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. He spread it on the table and fitted a tiny corner into it.

“Here’s your precious document,” he said. “Jarnow had a grip on it. The corner came off.”

“You picked up the missing corner?”

“Yes — the next day! Who do you think had it?”

“Who?”

“Griffith!”

The old man’s lips became firm.

“You did the right thing, Crull,” he said. “That has the end of the signature on it. Do you think Griffith knew what it was?”

“If he didn’t, he would have found out. He was a wise one, all right. But close-mouthed. Whatever theory he had, died with him. The dumb cluck that was on the case fell for the idea that Henry Windsor killed Jarnow. So we’re safe now.”

The old man thought a moment before he replied. He was looking hard at the table, long fingers of one hand stretched out for inspection.

“On that, yes,” he said. “But not on Griffith!”

“Why not? Suppose I had croaked Jarnow, with no chance to lay it on any one? We’d still have a murder mystery hanging over us, wouldn’t we?”

“But Griffith being killed so soon afterward—”

“That fixes it right for us. There were plenty of other cases more important to Griffith than this one. The newspapers don’t connect the two at all. The bulls in Philly are still rounding up the local small fry.”

“Do you think Blair Windsor does?”

“No. Do you know what I believe? I have a hunch he lays the Jarnow murder to Henry Windsor.”

“He ought to know his brother well enough not to think that.”

“Perhaps. But you know I framed a smooth alibi before I left here, and we kept it between ourselves, even though we might have let others in on it.”

“Jerry might suspect it.”

“Yes — for that matter we might have let the whole crew know. But I don’t think Jerry knows why I went away. He wouldn’t have heard of either murder — he doesn’t read the papers.

“Nobody but you and I know that he went up to the White Mountains, and mailed those postals that I had.”

“It worked out nicely, all right,” said the old man. “You put them in a safe place?”

“Right in Blair Windsor’s desk. You know they were all picture post cards. I’d been planning that trip. I bought the cards in Boston. Each card came from the right place — postmark tells the time — my own writing and signature.”

“Everybody has seen them?”

“Vernon has. Of course, he’s sure to help in a pinch. Harper and Quinn are both staying at the house. Blair Windsor didn’t leave until after the first cards arrived.”

“When do you expect he’ll be back?”

“Tomorrow, anyway. He was gone when I got back. Down to help Brother Henry out of the jam.”

Birdie Crull finished his statement with a laugh.

“Well,” said the old man, “it doesn’t look bad — not bad at all.”

“The only hitch,” replied Crull, “is this stunt of Blair Windsor’s of inviting so many people to the house. With so many guests, there’s always danger.”

“I don’t agree with you,” the old man answered. “I’m glad he does it. He invites any chance acquaintance. That was the way you got up here.

“It makes everything perfect for operations. Especially as he keeps booze out of the place. The more guests, and the better their reputation, the finer things are.”

“How about Jarnow?”

“Well, that was bad. But things have been pulled here for a long while, and that’s the first time anything went wrong. It was your fault, too, Crull. He followed you over here.”

“I know it. That’s why I was careful about coming over this time.”

“Why don’t you use the undercut?”

Birdie Crull shook his head.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s all right for Vernon. He belongs in the house; but I’m a guest—”

“You had better use it some of the time. You ought to have plenty of opportunities to get away. But it’s bad to come over the hill.”

“All right. I’ll follow your advice. I’ll go back that way, to-night.”

“Good. I know it’s difficult for you, Crull. Our situation is just this:

“Blair Windsor is a successful business man. He is an outstanding figure in this district, as well as in Boston. His friends and acquaintances are the best. He pays no attention to what is going on — neither do his friends. Jarnow was the first who wised up to anything.

“We must keep everything within the proper bounds. I thought it was wise to work you in up here. You are a valuable man. Of course we had trouble with Jarnow. Now, with two kills to your credit, you are something of a liability.”

“But suppose that Jarnow had seen something if I hadn’t been here—”

“I was coming to that. When I came up here to stay, I saw that danger immediately. We needed a man of action. Pedro wouldn’t do. I didn’t bring him.

“You were the man, and I found you, through Bronson. Old Tiger did me a good turn when he sent you my way. After all, every one of us is playing with dynamite; so you might as well be with us. You know how to handle dynamite.”

Birdie Crull grinned at the compliments. There was a knock on the door. The old man thrust the paper into the drawer of the bureau.

“What is it, Jerry?” he asked.

The door opened. A rough-clad man entered. He was heavy-set, and would have passed for a native of the district.

A close observer might have detected that he was a man from Manhattan.

“We’ll have dinner in a few minutes,” said Jerry. “Here’s a letter I picked up to-day.”

The old man looked at the envelope. It was addressed to J. Stevens, care of general delivery in a town some miles away.

“From Bronson,” he said. “All right, Jerry, you may leave.”

He opened the letter. As he read it, his face paled momentarily; then it reddened, became grim, and settled. Finally the old man laughed, sneeringly.

Birdie Crull wondered at his varied emotions. Usually the old man was impassive.

“We are all playing with dynamite,” said the old man. “This proves it. It concerns you, as well as myself, Crull.

“There is only one being who has ever annihilated my plans. Only one who has ever defeated Isaac Coffran. He is—”

The old man hesitated before pronouncing the name. Birdie Crull listened tensely.

“The Shadow!”

At these words from the lips of Isaac Coffran, Birdie Crull half rose from his chair. The murderer, with all his nerve, felt the pangs of terror when he heard that name. The old man had pronounced it with hideous venom.

“The Shadow!” echoed Birdie Crull.

“Yes,” said Isaac Coffran. “I think you have brought us trouble, again, Crull. I thank you for it. If there is one man whom I would like to meet, that man is The Shadow.”

The old man hesitated as he looked at Birdie Crull. Then he decided to explain.

“For years,” he said, “I lived in a house in New York. I had my schemes, my plans, and my methods. They worked. The arrangement we have here was a later development. I kept clear of it.

“Then I had a great plan. Two competent men were handling it. They would have succeeded — but for The Shadow.

“A young fellow named Duncan was a slight obstacle in our path. I arranged to dispose of him — easily. The Shadow interfered.

“Up until then, I had laughed at all talk of The Shadow. But when I encountered him, disaster followed. I left New York because of him. Clever though he may be, he could not have trailed me.”

“How does he come into it now?” questioned Birdie Crull, anxiously.

“Through you. He has found your trail.”

Birdie Crull repressed a shudder.

“How do you know?”

“Bronson tells me so. You know Spotter?”

“Yes. Every one does.”

“The Shadow has been pumping Spotter. I have the details here. He wants to find a man who has nerve; can use a gun; or a knife.”

Birdie Crull stared blankly at the wall.

“Do you think he is wise?” he questioned. “Does he know about — Jarnow — and Griffith?”

The murderer’s voice quavered slightly. Isaac Coffran studied him with piercing eyes.

“Perhaps he does,” said the old man harshly. “If so — let him be wise. He is not infallible.

“He was in disguise, when he met Spotter. He is perfect at the art of disguise. But Spotter saw through it — and The Shadow doesn’t know it!

“He fooled me once, The Shadow did. Impersonated Pedro, my Mexican helper, and actually deceived me. Later, he escaped an excellent trap that I planned for him. On this occasion, he is ours.

“Spotter knows The Shadow’s ability. He has suggested a plan that Bronson can carry through. The Shadow can perform wonders; but not miracles. He will need a miracle to save him this time.”

“I’ve seen him,” admitted Birdie Crull. “Came out of the dark. Plopped me in the middle of the street and—”

Isaac Coffran interrupted with a wave of his hand.

“He wins when he catches men unaware,” said the old man. “This time he will lose. He doesn’t know where you are, Crull. He doesn’t know where I am. He is not an agent of the police.”

“What is he then?”

“A mystery. A man who loves crime, but who thwarts it in preference to furthering it. I imagine that he has great wealth. He was a spy during the War, I understand.”

“Does he play a lone game?”

“Yes, and no. He has aides, but they play very minor parts. That will be to our advantage. Everything is arranged. Spotter and Bronson have awaited my word, only in case I might have a better suggestion.

“I approve of their plan. It will work. Remain tranquil.”

Jerry knocked at the door.

“Dinner,” said Isaac Coffran. “Time you were back at Windsor’s. Forget The Shadow. He is my prize. Be watchful from now on. You have done well.”

Birdie Crull had reached the stairway when the old man recalled him.

“Be sure to send Vernon over immediately,” said Isaac Coffran. “Tell him to bring his appliances. I have work for him. He will understand.”

“All right. By the way — I found these on Jarnow.”

Birdie Crull gave three crisp twenty-dollar bills to Isaac Coffran. The old man studied them keenly.

“He must have picked these up when he was here,” he said.

“Exactly,” answered Crull. “Just another clue that Detective Griffith didn’t keep. I know what I’m doing when I work.”

As the echoes of Birdie Crull’s footsteps came from the stairs, old Isaac Coffran rubbed his hands. His stooped shoulder trembled, a soft spasm of fiendish laughter shook his body.

“The Shadow!” His lips spat the words with diabolic malediction. “The Shadow! Hah-hah-hah!”

The laugh carried a sinister irony. A pitiless hilarity seemed to trail the old man’s bent figure as it slowly descended the stairway.