The Triple Trail

CHAPTER VII TWO MEN MEET

AT SIX o’clock the next afternoon, Harry Vincent was seated in his new apartment reading the evening newspaper. These furnished quarters at the Doswind had proven quite comfortable; and while engaged in vigil, Harry was posting himself on the latest details of the Treblaw case.

Detective Joe Cardona had been to Droverton that morning. He had issued a statement to reporters: namely, that Treblaw had left his home the day before for a short trip to New York.

According to the testimony of the old man’s servants, Treblaw had attached no significance to his journey. Nor had he carried any items of great value. So far as the Droverton aspect was concerned, there seemed no reason why anyone should have slain Stanton Treblaw. The old man had lived a quiet, secluded life. All his affairs were in order. He had apparently had no enemies in the world.

Cardona had learned the names of distant relatives who might come in for a share of Treblaw’s moderate estate. That constituted the ace sleuth’s only gain from his visit to Stanton Treblaw’s home.

Harry had just completed his reading of these details when he caught a slight sound from the hallway outside of his apartment. Moving softly to the door, he listened to departing footsteps. Opening the door, he peered through a small space and spotted Tully Kelk heading for the stairway.

Closing his door, Harry went to the window. He could see Moe Shrevnitz standing beside his parked cab. Harry gave no signal. He knew that he could count on Moe. Watching, he saw the alert cabby spring suddenly into his vehicle and drive up to the apartment entrance. Peering cautiously, Harry caught a glimpse of Kelk stepping into the cab.

Moe pulled away. Harry went to the telephone and made a call to Burbank. The contact man received the brief report. Harry’s vigil was ended until Kelk’s return.

MEANWHILE, Moe’s cab was rolling toward a ferry, connecting with a railroad on the Jersey shore. Moe, shrewd-faced and quick thinking, was making good time in response to Kelk’s order. He knew that his passenger must be in a hurry to catch a train on the Jersey side; but he was anxious to learn the exact destination. Moe grinned as he figured a way to gain that information.

When they reached the ferry, Kelk alighted, hurriedly paid his fare and entered the ferry slip.

Moe swung the taxi into a parking space and slid from his seat. He followed Kelk’s course and peered into the big waiting room just in time to see Kelk go through the gate. Moe saw the man displayed a ticket.

A gong sounded to announce the departure of the ferryboat that Kelk had caught. Moe walked into the waiting room and approached a lone ticket window. He spoke to the man behind the wicket.

“Fellow with a mustache,” remarked Moe. “Just bought a ticket. Did he take the ferry?”

“Guess he did,” replied the ticket agent. “That’s what he was after.”

“Left a package in my cab,” stated Moe. “I just found it and came back to catch him. Where was he going to?”

“He bought a ticket to a town called Droverton,” returned the agent. “One day round trip, so he ought to be back. Where did he come from?”

“An apartment house up on Fifty-fourth Street,” replied Moe. “Guess he lives there. I’ll drop the package there when I go back that way. They ought to know about him.”

Sauntering from the station, Moe went to his cab. He looked in back just in chance that Kelk had actually left something. Moe saw a crumpled copy of an evening newspaper that Kelk had been reading. Evidently Kelk had sent someone out for it, for Moe had not seen him leave the apartment during the day.

Both Harry and Moe had reported that Kelk must have a servant, although they had not spotted one. Chief evidence to that was the fact that Kelk had gained entry by ringing on the doorbell the night before, when he had returned to his apartment.

Moe lost no time in making a report to Burbank. The shrewd taxi driver knew that he had scored an ace in learning that Kelk had headed for Droverton, the town from which Treblaw had come.

Moe was right in that conjecture.

Not long after he had reported to Burbank, a swift roadster entered the Holland Tunnel en route from Manhattan to New Jersey. Shortly afterward, the same car was flashing along the Pulaski Skyway.

At the wheel was a hawk-faced driver whose eyes seemed firelike as they gazed from above the big car’s wheel. The Shadow was on his way to Droverton.

DUSK settled over New Jersey. The town of Droverton, situated on the east side of a hill, was covered with an early darkness. Intermittent street lamps glistened from shaded thoroughfares; they ended abruptly near the limits of the town.

The old Treblaw mansion formed a looming hulk in the increasing darkness. Dull lights from second-story windows only added to its ghostly appearance. On the very outskirts of Droverton, this building seemed a somber guardian of outer darkness — a melancholy structure that might have been mourning the death of its lamented master.

A black splotch glided beneath the illumination of the final lamp-post. Then that blot marked with darkness. A faint swish sounded in the settling thickness. An unseen form moved toward the dusk-enshrouded house.

The Shadow had arrived in Droverton. He was reconnoitering about the old house, knowing it to be the objective that Tully Kelk must have chosen for a secret visit.

Coming into the very shroud of the stone-walled building, The Shadow skirted a corner on the side that housed Treblaw’s study.

Gloved hands tried a window sash. It moved upward under pressure. Fingers felt the woodwork; The Shadow made a prompt discovery. The window had been jimmied loose. Not a difficult task, for the frame was old and had splintered easily. This discovery, however, produced intense caution on The Shadow’s part.

Silently, the hidden investigator raised the sash and entered. Thick blackness loomed straight ahead; The Shadow’s hands moved cautiously. They encountered the thickness of draperies. Gloves came from hands; long fingers felt the velvet. The Shadow found an opening and spread it the mere fraction of an inch.

Light greeted The Shadow’s gaze. He was peering into an oddly furnished room — Treblaw’s bizarre study, with its filing cabinets amid antiquated furnishings. But The Shadow found chief interest in the sole occupant of the room. He saw a tall, mustached man looking in a filing cabinet.

Tully Kelk: he fitted Harry Vincent’s description. It was Kelk who had jimmied the window. He had followed by turning on the light; now he was going through Treblaw’s records in a manner that showed methodical procedure.

Minutes passed while The Shadow watched. Kelk finish with one drawer and went to another. His face was wearing a perpetual scowl. His countenance was sallow in the yellow light. It was obvious that Kelk was finding disappointment in his search.

Ten minutes passed. Kelk was working on a third drawer.

The Shadow, ever silent behind the curtain, thrust one hand beneath his cloak. The muzzle of an automatic came close against the curtain. The Shadow had seen an approaching need for the weapon. The knob of the study door was turning.

Kelk had not noticed it. He was closing a filing drawer, careless of the noise he made. It was not until the door was actually moving inward that Kelk sensed approaching danger. He swung quickly toward the door; then leaped behind a metal filing cabinet. Pulling a gun from his pocket; he leveled it across the top of his improvised fortification.

AT that moment, another man leaped into the room. It was Wickroft. Pale-faced, the secretary was pointing a gun of his own; and he was covering the exact spot where Kelk had been. Sudden consternation swept over Wickroft’s face as he saw himself staring into a gun muzzle from atop the filing cabinet.

“Drop it!” came Kelk’s order, in a tense snarl.

Wickroft’s revolver thudded to the floor. The secretary raised his hands and backed stupidly against the door. It swung shut, cutting off the only means of retreat.

Behind his curtain, The Shadow changed the aim of his automatic. He had covered the door to begin with; now that tables had turned, he was pointing for Kelk. But the sallow man did not intend to open fire on Wickroft.

Kelk stepped from behind the filing cabinet. He laughed contemptuously as he still covered Wickroft; but his tone did not indicate malice.

“Who — who are you?” stammered Wickroft.

“A friend,” returned Kelk, suavely. “Just here to look about. Just seat yourself, over here where I can watch you, while I proceed.”

“But — but—”

“Don’t worry. Unless I find something wrong, you will have no cause to fear me. I said that I was a friend.”

“A friend!” echoed Wickroft. His eyes glittered suddenly. “You mean — you mean—”

Wickroft paused, stammering. Kelk was in the center of the room, his back toward the curtains. The Shadow could not see the intruder’s face, but he did observe the sudden eagerness that came over Wickroft’s countenance.

“Chief!” exclaimed the secretary. “I–I didn’t think you’d be coming here! Not after — not after I talked to you over the phone. I–I thought you believed me when I swore I was on the level.

“Honest, chief. I told you the truth, both yesterday and today, but I couldn’t talk much this morning. I was worried on account of that detective being here. Listen, chief, I haven’t pulled a double cross.”

As The Shadow watched, Kelk quietly pocketed his revolver. Stepping toward the far door, while Wickroft watched, trembling, Kelk picked up the secretary’s gun and handed it to Wickroft with a smile.

A happy gleam showed on Wickroft’s lips. Fumbling, the secretary pocketed his weapon and stammered: “You — you believe me, chief?”

“Certainly,” responded Kelk, still smiling. He motioned to a chair. “Sit down. We’ll talk it over.”

Wickroft nodded as he obeyed. He took the chair that Kelk had indicated, on one side of the big table. Kelk, in turn, seated himself in Treblaw’s accustomed chair.

Face to face, these two who had figured in the circumstances surrounding Treblaw’s death were ready to confer on a matter that concerned them both, while The Shadow watched from behind pulled curtains.