Treasures of Death

CHAPTER XVIII HARRY’S TURN

MORNING found Harry Vincent in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. The Shadow’s agent was troubled. Last night had brought no word from Terry Barliss, nor had Harry received any instructions from The Shadow.

Harry had called Burbank once, to make sure that there had been no obstruction on the line. He had also called Terry’s home and the servant had stated that he did not know when Mr. Barliss intended to return there.

His service under The Shadow had taught Harry Vincent the uselessness of worry. Frequently, Harry had been caught in hopeless situations and had been rescued through a seemingly miraculous turn. In this case, however, the strangeness of the whole matter made it puzzling. On the surface, all was well. What lay beneath?

Harry did not know. He could not guess. It seemed incredible that both Terry Barliss and The Shadow should have encountered serious trouble at the home of Wendel Hargate. Although he acknowledged Terry’s theory regarding the millionaire collector, Harry could not picture Hargate taking drastic action at this time.

There was no use to call Burbank; nor was there any value in visiting Rutledge Mann. Harry had told all he knew regarding Terry Barliss and the young man’s theory on Wendel Hargate. It was Harry’s duty to wait. Instructions would be forthcoming from either Burbank or Mann, should The Shadow choose to give them.

Yet even the cold light of morning could not squelch Harry’s qualms. In all the time that he had been in The Shadow’s service — from that first night, long ago, when The Shadow had saved him from self-destruction and had sworn him in as an agent — Harry Vincent had not known a situation which troubled him so oddly as did this tense one. Gazing from the window of his room, Harry sought to puzzle out the riddle. The cold gray monoliths of Manhattan seemed like challenging structures. Somewhere in New York — there could Terry Barliss be found. There, also, dwelt The Shadow. But where?

A knock at the door startled Harry from his reverie. The Shadow’s agent answered. He found a bell boy with a letter. Harry took the envelope. Back at the writing table, he studied it. The inscription puzzled him.

THE letter was addressed to Harry Vincent, Metrolite Hotel, New York. The sender, however, had inscribed the address in a singular fashion. The first word, though a trifle cramped, had been written with apparent firmness. Each succeeding word showed less care. The final portion of the address was a barely legible scrawl that ended in a ragged droop.

Harry opened the envelope. The letter was crumpled within. Harry unfolded it. He stared in astonishment at the blue-inked message. This was in The Shadow’s code — a letter from The Shadow!

There was no signature. It was not needed. Harry knew that the message was from The Shadow. He watched the blue ink fade as the air invoked its disappearing qualities.

There was something about the vanishing of the writing that perplexed Harry. The Shadow’s message usually disappeared in progressive stages. This time, the words were irregular in their evanishment. Harry did not know the reason; yet it was simple.

That coded letter had been written under a stress that had caused The Shadow to press heavily upon the pen at certain spots. Words that had been well blobbed with ink had taken more time to dry than had the others.

Harry tossed the blank paper into the wastebasket. He tore up the envelope and threw its fragments from the window. He knew from the message that something unforeseen had occurred. It was not The Shadow’s plan to deal directly with Harry except in emergencies. Trouble had certainly arisen.

Yet Harry Vincent could see but one course. The Shadow’s word was final. The fact that this letter had been mailed was proof that The Shadow must be in some place of security. Harry realized that Terry Barliss, in visiting Wendel Hargate, had probably thrown a hitch into The Shadow’s preparations.

There was no need to call Rutledge Mann or Burbank. This bona fide instruction had come from the one highest up: The Shadow. The ways of The Shadow were his own. He, the master, would make his own contact with Burbank or Mann when he so chose.

Harry’s task was evident. He must go to the town of Houlton and there keep watch on events at Eli Galban’s mansion. It was plain that Wendel Hargate intended to make some foray there. Harry Vincent recollected the statements that Terry Barliss had volunteered. Harry also recalled the fort-like aspect of Galban’s place.

Danger surely threatened. An attack was looming. If Galban’s home was to be the object of a raid, it was up to Harry Vincent to learn all that he could, so that The Shadow might be posted and aided when he arrived upon the chosen spot.

With Harry, instructions from The Shadow required immediate action unless otherwise stated. There was one course only for Harry to take. That was to drive to Houlton at once. Hurriedly, Harry left his room. He went from the hotel to the garage and drove from there in his coupe.

HARRY reached Houlton before noon. He drove along the dismal avenue with its rows of deserted houses. He passed Eli Galban’s big mansion and noted that the place was gray and forbidding. The day had become dreary; heavy clouds foretold impending rain. The weather added to the gloomy aspect.

After lunching at a Houlton restaurant, Harry adopted the policy of driving past Galban’s place at infrequent intervals. He did this wisely, confident that his inconspicuous coupe would not be noticed. The afternoon passed without incident. Night fell early, with a drizzle accompanying it.

With darkness forming an advantage, Harry Vincent resolved upon a more definite course. He drove his coupe to a Houlton garage and left it there. On foot, he walked along the old avenue, covering a mile before he neared the Galban mansion.

Whistling wind, rain that was cold and biting; these were the elements that mingled with the night. The gloomy, deserted houses seemed like haunted places. Harry felt their looming influence as he reached the last house in the row.

Beyond lay Eli Galban’s. The house seemed weird amid the darkness. Bars showed dimly at pale-lit windows. Harry felt a distinct caution at approaching the place. He thought of Corry Fawkes, the uncouth guardian who asked no questions.

Later, perhaps, Harry could visit Eli Galban personally. Despite the fact that the old man was prepared for danger, he might not know that it actually threatened. For the present, however, it was Harry’s job to look for traces of that danger. Whatever menace might be waiting, Harry knew that it must lie without. The problem was to find it.

The last house in the deserted row ended in a brick-faced wall. Evidently the builders had expected to encroach farther toward Galban’s residence, so had left this row but partly completed. Harry sidled along that wall. He was in a narrow space between the last house and the high fence that marked the edge of Eli Galban’s premises.

Peering toward Galban’s, Harry noted a lighted window on the first floor. He decided that by watching it, he might spot any sign of activity within the house — particularly on the part of Fawkes.

To gain a better view, Harry climbed the fence. He poised there; then, with hopes of still better observation, he let himself down on the other side.

Rain-soaked ground squelched beneath his feet as he crept closer to the big, gloomy mansion. Despite the forbidding aspects of the house, the place seemed to hold a magnetic lure. Harry reached the side of the house and raised himself to the lighted window.

He was looking into a dim, furnished room; the light came from an entry beyond. Harry could picture Galban’s paneled waxwork gallery.

In his interested view, Harry forgot the conditions that surrounded him. Heavy night, dripping drizzle and cold atmosphere gave him a sense of detachment. He did not realize that his body, though well veiled from any who might be in the house, could be seen from without.

PERHAPS it was the distance from the fence that gave Harry an added sense of security. The grounds seemed empty about Eli Galban’s place. It was not until Harry fancied that he heard a sound other than the dripping of rain that he dropped quickly from his spot beside the window.

Some one, Harry felt sure, was standing close by. Vainly, Harry peered through the darkness as he crouched beside the wall just below the window. The flicker of light threw a vague illumination straight ahead. Harry kept away from that patch and listened.

Creeping, squdgy sounds — vague in their direction. Harry Vincent slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket and clutched the automatic that he carried there. He decided that some other visitor must be within these premises; that he was not the only one spying upon events at Eli Galban’s.

Harry thought of Wendel Hargate. He knew that the hard-faced millionaire was plotting against Eli Galban. Were Hargate’s henchmen on the ground already?

Harry swung quickly as he heard a drawn hiss beside him. He yanked his gun from his pocket as he turned to meet a form that came lurching from the darkness.

Springing to his feet, Harry was caught off balance. His attacker bowled him flat upon the ground. With a desperate roll, Harry sprawled into the dim patch of light. His adversary followed, hissing fiercely as he leaped upon his quarry.

The gun was knocked from Harry’s hand. The Shadow’s agent was pinioned on his back. Hard hands gripped Harry’s throat. A gargle came from Harry’s lips. Staring with bulging eyes, Harry Vincent saw the face of his attacker.

Directly above him was the hideous, bloated countenance of Fawkes. Eli Galban’s fierce servant had crept up in the darkness to attack the intruder who was in his master’s precinct. To Harry, that evil visage carried the threat of death. Unable to cry out, The Shadow’s agent struggled weakly.

Then came blankness. Harry Vincent plopped limply back upon the muddy ground, worsted in his brief fight with his formidable foe.

Like Terry Barliss and The Shadow, Harry Vincent had met with circumstances that brought an end to his present plan of action.