Tower of Death

CHAPTER XVI THE AFTERMATH

TEN minutes after The Shadow had delivered his departing laugh, an automobile came whirling down the drive to Montgard. Its horn delivered a resounding honk; the blare was echoed by a second car that followed the first.

Both automobiles came to a stop in front of the stone house. Men with flashlights leaped to the ground. Others followed, armed with revolvers and rifles. Spreading in response to their leader’s command, they began to search the lawn.

They gained immediate results. The calls came back that they had discovered two bodies on the ground and that others appeared to be further along. The leader of the armed band called an order.

“Pick them up!” he shouted, gruffly. “If they put up a fight, let them have it. I’ll be in the house.”

Advancing through the darkness, this man rang the door of the big house. The window of Jarvis Raleigh’s bedroom opened. A querulous challenge came from above.

“I’m Burton Haggar,” called the man at the door. “Here with a posse. Let me in.”

A few minutes later, the bolts of the door slid back and Quarley, his cadaverous face paler than usual, stepped away to admit the arrival. Jarvis Raleigh stood at the opened inner door.

“Come right in, sheriff,” invited the master of Montgard. “We have just withstood a powerful invasion. Fortunately, all is well. Here is our only casualty.”

He pointed to Quarley. The servant’s arm was bandaged. Barbara Wyldram had bound the flesh wound that the servant had received.

“There’s one other,” corrected Haggar, as he stepped into the hallway. “Your man Jerome. He’s a gritty fellow. Drove down to my house to give us the alarm. Then he caved in.”

“Was he seriously wounded?” questioned Raleigh, anxiously.

“A bullet in his shoulder,” reported the sheriff. “Done up from loss of blood. We sent him to the hospital.”

Jarvis Raleigh pointed along the passage to the library, indicating that he wanted the sheriff to take that direction.

“The other members of my household are in the library,” asserted Raleigh. “Among us, we can tell you all that occurred.”

ARRIVED at the library, Raleigh introduced the sheriff to the three who were waiting there. Stokes Corvin had bolted the big oak door. He was calm as he smoked a cigarette. Sidney Richland was hunched in a chair, nervously wiping his spectacles. Barbara Wyldram was seated in a corner of the room. Quarley appeared while Raleigh was making the introductions.

“Briefly,” began Raleigh, “the trouble began when Quarley admitted Jerome at the front door. Ruffians opened fire from the dark. Jerome leaped into the car and fled. Quarley closed the door and bolted it.

“I came to my balcony upstairs. I opened fire with a rifle. When I realized the danger, I retired. Meanwhile, these two gentlemen” — Raleigh was indicating Corvin and Richland — “rushed to the side veranda. They were unarmed; like myself, they did not realize the strength of the invaders. They retired and bolted the door behind them.”

One of the posse came stamping up the hall as Raleigh finished speaking. The sheriff turned toward the door. The man delivered his report.

“We’ve accounted for eight of them,” he announced. “Four dead — the others are badly wounded. We sent the wounded men down to the hospital.”

“Have you questioned any of them?” asked Haggar.

“They won’t talk,” said the deputy. “They look like a crowd of big-city mobsters if you ask me.”

“How do you account for this?” quizzed Haggar, turning to Raleigh. “Here eight men picked off in the dark; yet the only two of you who had guns were forced to retire.”

“I can answer that.” It was Stokes Corvin who spoke. “There was a great deal of firing outside. I am sure that the invaders were attacked by others in the dark.”

“That is right, sir,” agreed Quarley. “They were fighting among themselves. I think that is why Jerome managed to escape, sir.”

“Probably true,” decided Jarvis Raleigh, nodding. “Some of the firing must have been diverted while I was at the window.”

“Not unlikely,” asserted the sheriff. “Those big-town crooks are always knocking each other off. One bunch probably came here to raid your home. The others learned of it and saw an opportunity to make trouble for their rivals.”

After this assertion, Haggar pondered. At last, he turned to Raleigh.

“Why do you think they came here?” he demanded. “What were they after?”

“I do not know.” Raleigh was emphatic. “My own property is very limited.”

“I can tell you.” Sidney Richland arose as he placed his pince-nez on his nose. “They were after the money that is hidden here. The wealth of Windrop Raleigh—”

Richland subsided as he caught a glare from Jarvis Raleigh. The owner of Montgard scowled, then spoke suavely to the sheriff.

“It is said,” he stated, “that my father left a considerable sum in some unknown hiding place. I have never looked for the supposed wealth. I need none of it, even should it actually exist.

“It is possible, as Sidney suggests, that some knaves may have heard this rumor. However, it would be futile for them to seek wealth that is so effectively buried that even I have never uncovered it.”

“That’s a motive, anyway,” decided the sheriff. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Raleigh. I’ll leave some of my posse on guard around the place.”

“I do not want, them,” rejoined Raleigh, with an emphatic shake of his head. “I prefer the isolation which I now enjoy. We shall be prepared for future trouble. I shall see to it that Corvin and Richland can obtain revolvers should new invaders appear.”

“Sorry, Mr. Raleigh,” declared the sheriff, grimly. “I’ll have to overrule you for tonight, at least. My men will be here until tomorrow.”

“That is allowable,” agreed Raleigh. “But after tomorrow — no.”

“We’ll search the grounds by daylight,” asserted the sheriff. “If everything is all right, we won’t disturb you further.”

Haggar and his deputy walked from the library. Quarley followed to bolt the front doors. Jarvis Raleigh glowered at Sidney Richland.

“After this, Sidney,” he ordered, “you will speak to visitors only when I request it. If you wish to do anything out of the ordinary, ask my permission.

Raleigh ended this brusque statement by a prompt departure. Sidney Richland sat abashed. Barbara Wyldram was thoughtful; at last the girl steadied herself and picked up a book to read. Stokes Corvin smiled; he strolled to the bookcase and obtained his volume of Dumas.

QUIET had come again to Montgard. In the excitement that had followed the sheriff’s arrival, all mention of former occurrences had been forgotten. The mystery of the two missing men remained as deep as before.

Hours passed. Montgard became a silent structure of heaped stone and small-paned windows that glimmered in the starlight, while pacing men patrolled the grounds, their rifles ready for a possible return of scattered invaders.

Though the past seemed forgotten at Montgard, it was remembered elsewhere. One hundred miles away, in New York City, a light came on in a mysterious room where only one being penetrated.

The Shadow was in his sanctum. Long white hands appeared beneath the bluish lamp. A brilliant gem, changing in its radiant hues, sparkled from a finger of the left hand. That jewel was The Shadow’s girasol, the matchless fire-opal which served as the mysterious master’s only token.

Hands were at work beneath the light. They were inscribing carefully worded letters, each to a different person. These messages were not in code. Their statements, phrased in simple language, were brief and definite.

The hands folded each of the letters. The notes were placed in separate envelopes. The Shadow’s hand addressed them. One letter was for Jarvis Raleigh; the other for Stokes Corvin.

A typewritten sheet of paper appeared beneath the light. It was a confidential statement from Rutledge Mann, an investigating agent who, in capacity of investment broker, obtained information for The Shadow. Another sheet appeared; it had been prepared by a second agent: Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic.

Between these two workers, The Shadow could rely on accurate data concerning all persons whose affairs he followed. Here, listed in order, were brief accounts that referred to Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin.

They told of Jarvis Raleigh’s former business connections; of the enterprises in which his father, Windrop Raleigh, had been engaged. They also gave facts concerning Stokes Corvin’s residence in England, where he had lived all his life.

In addition, the lists bore short statements concerning Sidney Richland and Barbara Wyldram. At the bottom of each list, however, there was a question mark beside the name of Quarley. The old servant had worked for Windrop Raleigh and now served his former master’s son. Nothing else was known concerning him.

The Shadow had chosen the names of Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin. These two would be the recipients of the communications which he had prepared. The envelopes disappeared as The Shadow drew them from the table. The light clicked out.

A strange laugh reverberated within the blackened walls of the mysterious sanctum. Ghoulish echoes sobbed back the mirthful cry. When the sounds had ended, the room was empty. The Shadow had departed.

The Shadow had planned to solve the mystery of Montgard. The time for the dispatching of the letters had not yet arrived; when the epistles reached their destinations, all would be ready for the final stroke.

The Shadow was relying upon the actions of two men. Through the responses of Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin, he would trap the villain who was responsible for crime within the walls of Montgard!