The Shadow's Justice

CHAPTER IX THE STOLEN CLEW

DOWNSTAIRS, Carter Boswick was bidding Farland Tracy good night. The lawyer was standing at the open door. Headley, the attendant, was holding his coat. In the driveway outside, Tracy’s car was warming with Holland, the chauffeur, beside it.

Beyond were bushes. Dark splotches above a blackened lawn, they seemed to shout out a warning of hidden eyes that watched the scene at the doorway. Men were lurking in that shrubbery, but there was no tangible evidence of their presence.

The door closed. The muffled purr of Tracy’s car sounded from the drive. Headley walked across the hall toward the back of the house. Carter noticed Drew Westling standing by the door of the dining room. His cousin was smoking the inevitable cigarette, in its accustomed holder.

Without comment, Carter turned back toward the stairs, which were just beyond Drew Westling’s range of vision. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he did not ascend; instead, he went through a short hallway that led to the library.

This was an old room lined with many shelves of books. It was at the middle of one side of the house. It had one doorway entering from this hall, and at either end were curtained openings that led into adjacent rooms.

Carter softly closed the door behind him. He turned out a single lamp that rested on a table. Satisfied that he was free from observation, he began a prompt examination of the bookshelves.

For Carter Boswick, the moment that he had finished the second reading of his father’s letter, had gained a sudden knowledge that he had kept entirely to himself. Inspired by the thought of a possible clew, he had said nothing to Farland Tracy.

It was evident that Houston Boswick had wanted his heir alone to learn of the place where wealth was hidden. The tone of the letter had given that indication. In reading, Carter had wondered at first how the information would be gained. Then, the reference to boyhood days had dropped like a bolt from a clear sky.

The very subject that Carter and Drew had discussed — those days when the two boys had played at duel with the elderly man watching them. That was a reference which only two persons could have understood with surety. Carter or Drew — either one as Houston Boswick’s heir — might quickly catch the meaning. Carter believed that he had done so.

To picture past events — to go over the details of long-remembered scenes — to follow his father’s track of memory — that was the duty imposed upon Carter Boswick. In the letter, now reposing in Carter’s pocket, was the statement that memories were as important as wealth.

Perhaps there was a connection between the two!

A PAIR of dusty volumes reposed high upon a neglected shelf. They were both portions of the same work — “The Three Musketeers,” by Alexandre Dumas. Carter reached up and brought down one of the volumes. He ran through the yellowed pages, skimming them with his thumb, until there was a sudden stop. With a smile of elation, Carter drew forth a thin manila envelope from between the pages.

He shook the book to make sure that this was all. Satisfied, he laid the volume on the table where the lamp rested close beside a hanging curtain.

With eager fingers, Carter tore open the envelope and drew forth a slip of yellow paper. It bore a brief notation:

Carter Boswick’s mind was retentive. He read this location, in terms of latitude and longitude, and the exact position made a definite impression. Accustomed to long sea trips, Carter was used to speaking of places in such terms. He noted this as exactly as another person might have noted a telephone number.

Carter laid the paper and the envelope upon the closed book. He turned back to the shelf. Still running through his brain was the statement he had just noted

Carter repeated the words with silent lips as he drew down the other volume of “The Three Musketeers,” and stepped back to whisk its pages.

The curtain moved beside the lamp. The slight, wavering tremble was not noticed by Carter Boswick, for the young man’s mind was upon the second book which he held.

From the curtain came a slow, cautious hand. Its fingers spread beneath the soft glow of the light; they closed upon the paper and the envelope, and withdrew as quietly as they had come. Only the book remained. The direction sheet and its container were gone!

Carter was shaking the second volume. Nothing between its leaves. The one message was all that his father had left. It was enough. It marked a definite location. There, in all probability, would lie the beginning of a trail — perhaps the wealth itself.

Carter’s musing ended abruptly. He was staring at the table where he had placed the first volume of Dumas. To his amazement, he noted that the paper and the envelope were gone!

Quickly, the young man began a futile search. He looked through the pages of the first volume. He found nothing. He frantically looked beneath the table; he shook the curtain. It required only a few minutes to convince him that the message was gone.

HAD the whole discovery been a product of his imagination? For a moment, Carter fancied so; but the constant running of the tabulated location still persisted in his mind.

Methodically, Carter drew his father’s letter from his pocket. With a pencil, he wrote down the exact latitude and longitude.

Impelled by a new idea, he hastily replaced the two books upon the shelf. He opened the little door, came out through the entry, and walked across the hall. He reached the door of the dinning room. Drew Westling was seated at the table, still smoking. Cigarette stumps lay in the ash tray before him.

Drew looked up as he saw Carter enter, and smiled nervously. It seemed obvious that he was trying to keep his thoughts to himself. When he spoke, he adopted an affable tone that was a trifle forced.

“Thought I’d stay in here while you finished your meal,” he explained to Carter. “Now that Tracy went away, I figured you would come back for dessert.”

“Of course,” said Carter calmly. “Very thoughtful of you, Drew.”

Headley entered while Carter was eating. The attendant cleared away the remaining dishes and went stolidly about his duty. Very few words were exchanged between Carter and Drew. Each appeared quite engrossed in his own thoughts.

Carter’s mind was still picturing the scene in the library. The young man wondered if Drew Westling chanced to be considering it also. Nothing could be gained by silence; moreover, it would be wise not to mention that particular subject. Finishing his dessert, Carter opened a quiet but friendly conversation into which Drew entered with increasing vivacity.

BACK in the quiet library, the curtain moved once again; this time in darkness, for Carter Boswick had extinguished the lamp. A tiny light glimmered, held by an unseen hand. It ran along the bookshelves and stopped at two volumes that were very slightly out of place.

A black-gloved hand removed the two volumes of “The Three Musketeers.” The books were placed upon the table there, the flashlight glowed while fingers went through their pages.

A low, laugh-like whisper came from lips in the dark. The Shadow, following a clew that he had gained, had arrived after Carter Boswick had inspected these very books. A slight yielding of one volume at a certain spot indicated the place from which Carter had removed a message.

The books closed. The hands replaced them upon the shelf. The Shadow’s light went out. The whisper died away in the darkness as an unseen form passed from the library, reached the hall, and looked into the dining room, where Carter still chatted with his cousin.

The figure moved toward the rear of the house. Soon it was gone. It reappeared momentarily from the side porch, and crossed the driveway toward the bushes. There, The Shadow listened. There was no sound.

Vigilant watchers were no longer here. The Shadow had detected them upon their arrival; now he discovered that they had left.

Why?

The Shadow, even though he had arrived late in the library, sensed the explanation. The young Boswick, The Shadow knew, had found some message.

Had word of that finding been passed to those outside? Would an attack be made tonight?

Possibly; although the sudden departure of the watchers made it unlikely.

There was another explanation.

Some one within the house could have learned what Carter Boswick had found; or could even have taken whatever the young man had discovered. These watchers could have left with important information.

The Shadow had waited long in the upstairs study, believing that Carter Boswick had either failed to discover the meaning of his father’s letter, or would have waited to follow instructions later in the evening. It was Carter’s prompt actions that had blocked The Shadow’s careful plan of previous inspection.

Much might have happened during that unanticipated interim. But The Shadow, even when he encountered ill fortune, never faltered. This strange personage had a weird ability to turn all events to his advantage. Such would be his plan tonight.

The stealthy figure made no sound, nor did it show itself as it moved across the lawn. Darkness seemed to swallow The Shadow as he set forth.

It was not until later that another figure made its appearance within the confines of the Boswick estate. A young man, cautious, but by no means invisible, took up his vigil at a convenient spot some distance from the house.

Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had been summoned to keep watch and to report on Carter Boswick’s actions. That would be his duty for the present. The Shadow, himself, had other work to do.

Into the darkness he had gone; within darkness would he remain. From somewhere, unseen, he would plan his campaign of swift action. The Shadow, alone, could frustrate the designs of those who had gained the stolen clew!