The Shadow's Justice

CHAPTER II TALK OF WEALTH

Within a small, but finely furnished study, Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy faced each other across a mahogany desk, totally unaware that listeners were stationed at both door and window.

The two men formed an interesting contrast in the glow of the desk lamp. Farland Tracy, still in his forties, showed virility in every action. Firm-faced. square-jawed, and stalwart, he had a dynamic air combined with self-assurance. With it, his eyes expressed understanding and sympathetic feeling.

Houston Boswick, in opposition, was aged and weary. He was a man past sixty, and his thin face marked him as one who had lost all former initiative.

His eyes, alone, revealed his intellect. At times they were colorless; but at intervals they sparkled with quick purpose. Occasionally, they showed a distinct trace of innate shrewdness.

Those eyes were Tracy’s key. The lawyer watched them steadily and calmly, knowing that they alone could serve as an index to Houston Boswick’s true emotions.

“Tracy” — Boswick’s voice was pitifully thin — “I am an old man who has nothing left to live for.”

“Hardly old,” rejoined Tracy, in a quiet tone. “You have not yet reached the dividing line of threescore and ten.”

“I am nearing it,” asserted Boswick, with a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders, “and my life has been one of ceaseless labor. The accumulation of wealth is no sinecure, Tracy. I have made my share — more than my share, to be exact. I began almost in childhood. That is why I am nearing the end of life.”

“You have retired from business,” Tracy reminded him. “That should give you the opportunity to recuperate.”

“I retired,” interrupted Boswick, “purely because I could no longer continue. When an old horse can no longer stand in harness, his days are numbered.”

Farland Tracy had no reply. Houston Boswick could see the sympathy in his expression. The old man smiled wanly.

“Do not attempt to delude me, Tracy,” declared Boswick. “This last trip to Florida was for my health. Its purpose failed. The writing is on the wall. My physicians have told me that I may not have long to live. I am ready to die.”

“Why?” questioned Tracy incredulously.

“Because,” explained Boswick “life holds nothing in store for me. What is wealth when one can no longer work? That has been my creed, Tracy. I shall always adhere to it.

“All my business associates were older than myself. One by one they have dropped from sight. Death has accounted for most of them. Senility has seized the rest. For the past year, I have lived with only one hope.”

“Your son’s return.”

“Yes. Now, Tracy, that hope is assured.”

“You have heard from Carter?”

Houston Boswick nodded.

REAL elation appeared upon Farland Tracy’s countenance. The lawyer had often heard Houston Boswick speak of his absent son, Carter.

Years before, the younger Boswick had gone out to seek his own fortune. He had traveled in many parts of the world. Indirect reports had reached Houston Boswick that Carter was doing well. But not until now had the old man received direct news from Carter Boswick himself.

“Let me become reminiscent,” remarked Houston Boswick. “Tragedy entered my life some twenty-odd years ago. Directly following the death of my wife, my sister Stella — my only living relation — perished in a train wreck with her husband, Hugh Westling.

“I raised their boy with mine. My son, Carter, and my nephew, Drew Westling, were like brothers. The same age — but Carter was the stronger, and Drew the weaker. Realizing it, I favored Drew.”

“That was considerate,” observed Tracy.

“Too considerate,” corrected Houston Boswick. “Carter became obsessed with independence. Drew became a weakling, with no initiative. The result was that Carter went away, and Drew remained.

“Only a week ago, I received a letter from Montevideo. It was from Carter. A friend of mine had met him there, and had given him my Florida address. In that letter, Carter announced that he was coming home.”

“How soon?”

“He has already sailed. He is aboard the steamship Southern Star. He is coming by way of Havana, and will be here within two weeks.”

“Wonderful news!” exclaimed Tracy. “He will be glad to see you — and I know that he will receive a glorious welcome.”

“Hardly,” responded Boswick, in a wistful tone. “I shall not be here to greet him.”

“You will be—”

“Dead. Yes, Tracy, I shall be dead.”

The lawyer slapped his hand upon the table. He could not believe his ears. This statement seemed incredible — the absurd fancy of a failing mind.

“Dead,” repeated Houston Boswick quietly. “I feel the end of life approaching. It will be for the best, Tracy. I should not like Carter to see me as I am now. He should always remember me as I was when he went away — close to ten years ago.”

The lawyer settled back in resignation. He saw that it was no use to dispute the matter with the old man.

“That is why I have summoned you, Tracy,” resumed Houston Boswick. “You have been my lawyer since my old friend, Glade Rupert, passed away. Our friendship has been a matter of but a few years, but I feel that you have been most competent and kindly. Therefore, I am relying upon you now.”

Farland Tracy bowed quietly.

“First of all, resumed Boswick, “my son Carter must not know of my death until after his arrival in New York. You understand?”

Tracy nodded. The lawyer, to humor the old man, was accepting Houston Boswick’s death as a forgone matter of the immediate future.

“Then,” added Boswick, “you will arrange full discharge of my estate, according to the terms. The bulk to Carter, with the provision of a comfortable life income for Drew Westling.”

The old man paused speculatively. Then, with a sad air, he continued on a new theme.

“My nephew Drew, he stared, “is a waster. I have provided for him because he is my sister’s son. I have lost all confidence in Drew. I have not told him that I have heard from Carter. Drew knows that my health is failing. He will expect the full estate for himself. Indeed, it would be his, but for Carter.

“That is the reason, Tracy, why I have always minimized the amount of my possessions. People will be surprised, after my death, to learn that my estate is scarcely more than a round million. Only the heir — whether it he Carter or Drew — will learn, some time after my death, that ten times that sum is available!”

“You have made a great mistake,” declared Tracy seriously. “This secret of yours — the strange hiding of a vast sum of money — might lead to serious consequences. Some schemer might seek to learn the place of its deposit.”

“How can any one learn?” questioned Boswick, with a shrewd smile. “I, alone, have knowledge of the hiding place. My old lawyer, Rupert, told me that he thought the scheme was safe.”

“Even though he, like myself, was never informed of the spot where you had placed the money?”

“Rupert never knew,” smiled Boswick. “But he knew me when I was younger — at the time when I first evolved the plan of hidden wealth. He had more confidence in me than you have, Tracy. You have known me only since I became old.”

The lawyer nodded. He realized that Houston Boswick spoke the truth. Nevertheless, his expression still betrayed doubt, and old Boswick was aware of it.

“Secrets,” remarked Tracy, “have a way of leaking out. Your constant effort to minimize the size of your estate could certainly excite suspicion.”

“I believe it has,” declared Boswick quietly.

“You do?” questioned Tracy, in momentary alarm. “What cause have you to think so?”

“This house,” explained Houston Boswick, “was closed while I was away. Drew Westling was living at his club. Headley paid occasional visits here to see that all was well. Upon my return, to-day, I noticed that certain things had been disturbed. I questioned both Drew and Headley.”

“What did they say?”

“Drew claimed to know nothing about it. Nor did Headley, until I pointed out certain traces which he had not noticed. He became alarmed then, Tracy. He believed, with me, that this house had been entered and searched from top to bottom.”

“Hm-m-m,” mused Tracy. “Was anything missing?”

“Nothing,” responded Houston Boswick. “That shows that a definite purpose was at work. Some one was looking for something that could not be found.”

“You are sure that the marauders were not successful?’

“Positive. They would never discover my secret, Tracy, although it lies within this house. Only my heir — whether he be Carter or Drew — can gain the clew to my hidden wealth.”

FARLAND TRACY was thoughtful. Houston Boswick’s discovery surprised the lawyer; now, he was trying to find a plausible explanation for this mysterious occurrence. The old man divined the attorney’s thoughts.

“Do not worry, Tracy,” he said dryly. “I do not care to know the identity of the instigator. It could be Drew Westling; it could be Headley; it could be some one entirely unknown to me. As you say, I have been almost over-emphatic in my efforts to make it appear that my supply of worldly possessions has shrunk to exceedingly small proportions.

“But what do I care now? Carter is returning. He will receive my visible wealth. Let him find the unknown treasure, if he has the initiative. Should any thing happen to prevent Carter’s return, the task will belong to Drew Westling.”

Farland Tracy shook his head in stern disapproval. This strange method of handling vast resources seemed atrocious to the lawyer.

“Suppose,” he presumed, “that Carter — or Drew, for that matter — lacks the initiative. Then what will become of the wealth?”

“It will remain where it is,” smiled Houston Boswick weakly. “Why not? I shall have no use for it. My heir will not deserve it. But do not fear that consequence, Tracy. Simply proceed with the simple duties governing the affairs of my estate. The rest will take care of itself.”

The old man’s gaze became prophetic. Farland Tracy was amazed at the change which filled those sad gray eyes. He listened while Houston Boswick spoke in a far-away voice.

“Carter will return,” presaged the old man. “I am sure of it now. He will find the wealth that is rightfully his. Drew Westling will subsist upon the income that I have provided for him.

“I know this, Tracy. I know it as positively as I know that I shall be dead when Carter reaches New York. I have made my plans. They will succeed, no matter what may oppose them.”

The old man was leaning weakly on his desk. With one hand, he made a feeble motion to indicate that the interview was ended. Farland Tracy arose and grasped the hand. Concern showed in the lawyer’s face.

NEITHER Tracy nor Boswick heard the slight motion that occurred outside the study door. Drew Westling, hearing footsteps on the stairs, had moved quickly along the hall.

Now came a rap at the door, followed by the even voice of Headley, Boswick’s serving man. The old man pointed to the door; Farland Tracy gave the order to enter. In came Headley.

“Mr. Tracy’s car is here, sir,” announced the servant.

“Good night,” said Houston Boswick. “Remember, Tracy. Remember. I rely upon you.”

“I shall remember,” replied the lawyer.

Farland Tracy’s last view of Houston Boswick showed the old man collapsed upon the desk, with Headley bending over him in apprehension. Going downstairs alone, the lawyer began to believe the old man’s statement that his death was near.

There was no sign of Drew Westling on the gloomy first floor. Farland Tracy donned coat and hat, and left the house. He found Holland standing by the door of the sedan. Tracy hurried into the car to escape the drizzle. He ordered the chauffeur to drive him home.

Lurking figures came from the side portico after the automobile had gone. They reached the shrubbery and lingered there for several minutes. Then came a low voice in the darkness:

“All right, Scully. It’s all off for tonight. Slide along. I’ll take care of myself.”

“O. K., Stacks. I thought this waiting would be a lot of hooey.”

The figure of Scully moved along the shrub-fringed drive, and was swallowed by the darkened mist. Stacks still remained, as though expecting some signal from the house. Finally, he followed in his companion’s course.

A dim shape emerged from the shelter of the side portico. It was the same vague figure that had clung to the wall outside of Houston Boswick’s study window. Weird and phantom-like, it took up the trail of “Stacks.”

The Shadow was following the chief of the two watchers. Into the darkness he had gone, trailing a man whose purpose here had been one of evil. Silently, mysteriously, a being of darkness was hounding a minion of crime.

The light went out above the front porch of Houston Boswick’s home. The old mansion loomed dull and forlorn amid the swirling drizzle. Its inmates no longer concerned The Shadow this night. Hidden watchers had remained unsummoned. Their work still belonged to the future. Representatives of a plotter who had sent them here, they had retired.

Out of the night had The Shadow come; into the night had he returned.

An unwitting spy was leading this master of darkness to an evil lair where a man higher up awaited!