The Shadow - Town Of Hate Part 6

The trailer was Cliff Marsland. He had the firm jaw and solid frame of a local mill-hand, with an air that could have cla.s.sed him as a foreman. Brett was too busy to know all his hired help personally. Cliff wouldn't excite suspicion if he happened to be going in the direction of the mill. As it happened, Brett didn't even notice him.

The man that Brett did notice was Clyde Burke. He was seen talking to the doorman of the Star Theater.

Having met Clyde and knowing him to be a reporter, Brett beckoned him along. Clyde couldn't well refuse, even though he saw Creswold, the man he was a.s.signed to watch, turn and go into the theater, as though to avoid meeting Brett.

During the short walk to the mill, Brett told Clyde about the bonus proposition. He pointed out its value as a story. When they reached the office, he showed Clyde the list of employees and checked off three or four.

"Good faithful workers, these," complimented Brett. "Keep an eye on them, Burke, and get their reactions. It ought to be good human interest stuff for any story you're writing. Just stay along with the line when the workers get their pay. My a.s.sociates will be over shortly to help make out the payroll. I'd better be phoning the paymaster to come up here. See you later, Burke."

Clyde went downstairs and met Cliff, who was outside. Since it was good business to humor Brett,Clyde switched his Creswold a.s.signment to Cliff. They parted near the entrance to the mill yard. At just that moment, Cranston and the others appeared from the direction of the hotel.

Cranston and Brett's friends arrived without the ladies, who had stayed at the hotel. They found Brett at the lower door, calling to the paymaster, who came across the yard to join them. When they reached the upstairs office, Cranston strolled to the window and took a two-way glance.

It was all he needed to a.n.a.lyze the s.h.i.+ft that Clyde and Cliff had made. Over by a lighted doorway, Clyde was playing the part of an inquiring reporter. He was chatting with a foreman who was inviting him into the mill. Up the street, Cliff was strolling toward the Star Theater. It looked as though he was intending to take in the second show.

Turning about, Cranston looked for Brett. He found him closing the door of the inner office, where he had gone to get the cash from the safe. Casually, Cranston flicked a lighter to smoke a cigarette; then suddenly clipped off the flame. A sudden loop-hole had formed in The Shadow's plans, due to a time lapse which was short, but highly important if crime happened to be on the move.

In The Shadow's calculations, crime was always on the move, particularly in a tense town like Lamira.

The present situation called for a quick move by The Shadow, not the person of Lamont Cranston.

To the surprise of Brett's a.s.sociates, the usually deliberate Mr. Cranston took rapid strides across the office to the closed door of the inner room. They wondered what his purpose was to be. They never did learn.

Something intervened so suddenly that Cranston's only policy was to lapse back into his visible self and forget the trip-hammer action that belonged to The Shadow!

XIV.

IT happened with a smash, and halted Cranston in his tracks. The smash came hard, from the other side of the door through which Brett had gone. Something thudded forcibly and clattered with a m.u.f.fled groan. An instant later, the door was whipped inward, giving Cranston barely time to drop away from it.

In the doorway crouched a masked man, with a gleaming gun. He wagged it back and forth with an upward gesture that was self-evident. It meant that hands were to be hoisted and they were, Cranston's among them.

A curious dilemma, this, for the man who usually played The Shadow in a situation of this sort!

Having stopped just short enough, Cranston did not betray the fact that he had been stepping toward that door. Everybody in the outer office knew it, but not the masked man who had suddenly taken over from the inner room. Therefore it was good policy for Cranston to play a part that matched the actions of Brett's horrified a.s.sociates.

Good policy on Brett's account, for one thing.

Over by the safe lay a huddled form that didn't move. The door of the safe was open and the money satchel was gone. It hadn't really vanished, for it was under the arm of the masked man who brandished the gun in his other hand. He seemed to regard the bag as a s.h.i.+eld, as though its tight-packed contents could stop any bullets that a challenger might deliver.

There were no challengers.

Everyone felt hara.s.sed because of Brett. Obviously the masked man had been waiting for him. Thatsmash against the door had been the result. The marauder struck just after Brett had opened it and was bringing the money satchel to his friends. He had slugged Brett and flung him over by the safe.

What Brett had gotten, others would receive if they meddled with this masked fiend. His unrecognizable snarl was a full expression of his ugly sentiments. Or maybe they'd take more than Brett had. A bash on the head was sufficient to stop an unsuspecting man in a darkened room; but if this masked robber felt himself too crowded, he would probably deliver bullets by way of variety.

That was what Cranston didn't want; not on his own account, but that of others.

If the gun had leveled Cranston's way, he would have rushed it. Considering a few neat tricks that he often practiced at close range, he would probably have succeeded. But he didn't want others trying such tactics, nor did he care to irk the masked man into firing any shots at the huddled form beside the safe. It was better to let him go and salvage what was left of Brett before thinking about the cash.

Besides, as Cranston, The Shadow was calmly studying the masked man's behavior for future reference.

The crouch was about right for Bigby, who took precedence as Brett's real rival. The sharp manner tallied reasonably with Creswold, the dark horse in all previous events. When the masked man made his rush out through the large office, he would certainly settle that question of ident.i.ty. That was an excellent reason to wait him out.

Only the masked man didn't rush.

He gave one quick bluff with his gun. He swung a dramatic brandish that sent men ducking. Cranston was with them, for two good reasons. One was to complete his policy of playing helpless like the rest.

The other was that Cranston turned his dodge into a tricky side-dive. On the spur of the instant, it promised a sure result. If the man with the gun had come charging through, Cranston would have nailed him hard. He would have struck with a low hurling tackle.

What came Cranston's way was the door. Instead of surging forward, the marauder recoiled back into the darkened inner room. He kicked the door shut as he went. Cranston twisted about with a whirl so rapid that it was over before his dodging companions saw it. Cranston grabbed the door k.n.o.b and twisted it, just as a bolt clamped on the other side.

It was a stout, heavy door that would need a battering ram to crash it. Across the big office was an object that would do. Cranston sprang to get it. During the time it took him, a new fray broke out within the inner room. Apparently Brett had been playing possum.

Something jounced the door; then footsteps clattered. There was a shout from Brett; a bellow from his masked foe. A terrific crash was accompanied by the clatter of gla.s.s. Following it came a m.u.f.fled, frantic cry that was certainly Brett's. Men were pawing at the outside of the door, trying somehow to open it.

Behind them, Cranston's voice called: "Gangway!"

The cl.u.s.ter scattered as Cranston ploughed through with his improvised battering ram. It was a heavy floor lamp. He had picked it up by the standard, wrenching the cord loose from the wall. He was gripping the lamp horizontally, its solid, weighty base ahead of him.

It hit with the punch of a pile-driver! The door split all apart. Cranston went straight through, so hard that the excited witnesses thought he was going to smash the open safe. Instead, he dropped the lamp with a side twist and sprang across the standard before it could trip him. He was just in time to catch a man who came reeling from the direction of the shattered window. The man was Brett. He sagged so heavily that he almost pulled Cranston down with him. Other hands arrived to haul Brett to his feet. He recuperated long enough to point toward the window and gasp: "That way!"

Reaching the window, Brett's friends saw the complete evidence of the masked robber's flight. On the ground below lay a shattered chair which the marauder had flung through the window; beyond was a ladder, lying so close to the brink of the Kawagha that it seemed the fugitive must have tried to shove it into the narrow river. Further away, near the first old building on the river bank, was the money satchel, wide open and empty.

The only place where the robber could have gone was beyond those old brick buildings. That was more important than the fact that the man had flung his coat behind him. It lay at the base of the wall, where the foot of the ladder must have been. Brett was muttering something about a struggle and a ripped coat but n.o.body stopped to listen. Instead, Brett's friends dashed down from the office. They split up when they reached the ground. Some went around beyond the buildings while others took the short cut behind them.

The two groups converged near the entrance of an alleyway that led straight to the back door of the Star Theater. Cranston was with them. Brett was stumbling some distance behind when the group halted at sight of Creswold. The theater owner had come abruptly from the doorway. Standing with his hands on his elbows, he blocked the unruly rush.

Creswold was in s.h.i.+rt sleeves. He looked puzzled by the excitement, as though his premises were being invaded by a crowd of rowdies. Recognizing who the men were, their conduct surprised him further. He shook his head when they asked if he'd seen anyone come this way. Creswold must have heard about the festivities at the hotel, because when Brett's friends started talk of robbery, Creswold stared as though he thought they were drunk.

In fact, Brett looked definitely so, with his rumpled hair, mussed attire and mumbling manner. Then, he suddenly stiffened, braced himself against the alley wall and pointed off across the Kawagha. Brett's wits were back as he exclaimed: "Look! Going up Bigby's driveway!"

They saw the car-lights that Brett indicated and those were enough. Forgetting Creswold, the pack was off. In cars of their own, they sped across the river. They made directly for The Gables and arrived there in mad style. Fully himself again, Brett was the leader of the throng. They rushed in through the back door and came upon Bigby and a few farmers seated around the kitchen table, counting stacks of money.

With a remnant of his earlier stagger, Brett reached the table. He clamped a hand upon the money and pulled a revolver from his pocket. With the weapon practically tickling Bigby's nose, Brett hoa.r.s.ed the accusation: "You're the robber that we're after, Bigby! This is my money-- mine and my friends' money!"

"It's our money!" stormed Bigby, savagely pus.h.i.+ng the gun aside. "All the dollars that these poor farmers could sc.r.a.pe up to help those who have suffered from your persecution."

Brett's friends were dragging him away, pulling the gun from his reluctant hand. What Brett hadn't heeded, they could see too plainly. There were thousands of dollars upon Bigby's kitchen table, but not in the cash that Brett had brought from the bank that afternoon. The payroll and bonus money had been crisp and new. It had been packed into tight, neat bundles. This wealth of green was tawdry and rumpled. Its very appearance bore out Bigby's claim regarding it. It was all in bills of small denomination. It represented hard-earned cash that had been brought from socks and mattresses and attic hiding places.

Brett's funds were stolen and Bigby was in the money; but it wasn't the same money. The balance had swung from town to county and, from a cash standpoint, the feud was in Bigby's favor. Yet however much Brett hated his rival, he could not dispute Bigby's argument. This was cash hard-earned by long toil, entrusted to Bigby by his farmer friends.

From the doorway, Lamont Cranston saw the glare that Brett gave Bigby, only to receive a triumphant gleam in return. Of all the trails he had ever followed, The Shadow had never encountered one with a more curious yet conclusive ending than this!

XV.

LAMONT CRANSTON gazed idly from the window of his hotel room, studying the main street of Lamira. Viewed by daylight, the scene looked serene. But Cranston could sense what seethed beneath.

The feud between Brett and Bigby should have exploded the night before, but it hadn't.

Brett's arrival at Bigby's, the furious scene between them, had all ended in a sudden calm. They had parted in white-hot hatred; Brett a bad and sullen loser; Bigby gloating over a rubbed-in victory. But that hadn't solved the mystery of the robbery at the mill office.

In his own way, Lamont Cranston was a.n.a.lyzing that problem. He considered the Lamira question as a whole. Present were the men who had helped check on the princ.i.p.al actors in the local drama. The agents of The Shadow were repeating their reports.

Harry Vincent had kept tabs on Claude Bigby.

"It wasn't too easy trailing Bigby," Harry admitted frankly. "He covered a lot of ground, collecting contributions from those farmers and I couldn't let him know that I was following him. But I'm sure of one thing: Bigby wasn't coming from the town when he made that last trip up to The Gables."

Cranston turned from the window and supplied a slightly questioning gaze that called for more specifications.

"I was parked by the bridge," explained Harry. "I saw Bigby's car swing in from an old road on his own side of the Kawagha. He turned up the driveway, and I decided to wait until he reached the house before hatching an excuse to follow and drop in there. Before I could start, a flock of cars came whooping across the bridge and tore up to Bigby's. You know the rest, better than I do."

His questioning gaze turned toward Clyde Burke.

"It was my job to watch Creswold," stated the reporter, "but when Brett invited me down to the mill, I had to go along. I left Brett in his office, tipped off Cliff to check on Creswold, and then I followed Brett's suggestion to interview the mill-hands. It seemed good policy."

"Excellent policy," agreed Cranston. "By the way, you didn't hear any sounds from the inner office while you were upstairs with Brett?"

"None at all."

"I suppose the marauder hadn't arrived by that time," decided Cranston. "Otherwise he would havetackled Brett right then."

"Or after I left," suggested Clyde. "From then on, Brett was alone upstairs, until you arrived."

"No, he came downstairs," corrected Cranston. "He was outside, summoning the paymaster when we arrived from the hotel. It couldn't have been more than five minutes later, but those minutes were important."

A patient listener to all this discussion, Margo Lane could no longer keep silent.

"I'll say they were important, those minutes!" exclaimed Margo. "That's when Creswold must have been sneaking along the bank of the dear old Kawagha, to plant his ladder up against the window of Brett's strong room. You're worrying over everything Lamont, except the obvious!"

"Suppose we hear the report on Creswold," declared Cranston. "Then we will know how obvious it is."

That suggestion brought a headshake from Cliff Marsland who was to furnish the report in question.

"Things were a jump ahead of me," admitted Cliff. "First, I had to go back to the Star Theater, after I left Clyde down by the mill. That's when Creswold would have been on the move, sneaking the other direction."

Cranston's nod told Cliff to proceed.

"There was a line at the box office," continued Cliff, "so I was slow getting into the theater. I didn't bother about checking the time, because I wanted to tab Creswold first. After I'd picked the right seat, I kept watch on the curtained doorway until Creswold suddenly peeked through it."

"Did you clock him then?"

"Not right then. I gave him about half a minute; then I sneaked past the curtain. The door to Creswold's office was closed, so I sneaked through to the alley."

"For any special reason?"

"Yes. To see if there was a light in that little window in Creswold's office. There was."

"Could you see Creswold?"

"No. The window is too high up. I was trying to find some way of climbing up to it when I heard shouts from those old buildings down toward the mill. So I ducked to the back end of the alley, around behind the theater."

Cranston nodded; then said with a slight smile: "That's when we arrived."

"I'll say you arrived," rejoined Cliff. "Brett's friends were like a pack of hounds on the full run. How long did it take them to get started?"

"Not very long," calculated Cranston. "Our masked friend would have been doing well to get down the ladder while I was cras.h.i.+ng the inner door. He needed a quick run to reach the old buildings before we looked from the window. Brett's friends caught the idea immediately and started their pursuit."

"Creswold certainly handled them smoothly," conceded Cliff. "He acted as if he'd heard them shoutingwhen they reached the alley. He came from his office and around through the alley door, just when they arrived."

Again, Cranston nodded. He had witnessed that climax.

"He'd have had time though, to put on a coat," added Cliff. "I didn't notice his s.h.i.+rt sleeves when he looked out through the curtain, but I'm sure it was Creswold. There wasn't anybody else back stage or in the alley when I browsed around there. But it wasn't smart of Creswold to be in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves."

"Why not?" inquired Margo. "It was warm last night, wasn't it? If Creswold was working in his office, it would be natural for him to take his coat off--or would it?"

"It would," stated Cranston, speaking for Cliff as well as himself, "except that Brett ripped away the masked robber's coat during the struggle. It was found below the window."

"And was it Creswold's coat?"

"n.o.body knows yet. In fact, so far no one has actually accused Creswold."

As he spoke, Cranston took another look from the hotel window. It was getting along toward dusk, but he could still see Brett coming from the direction of the mill. He was talking with some friends who were gesturing emphatically toward the Star Theater. Apparently they were convincing Brett of something.

"Brett still wants to blame Bigby," remarked Cranston, "but once he gets rid of that foolish notion, suspicion is going to swing toward Creswold. I wonder if he realizes it."

Cranston's tone was almost whimsical as his gaze fixed on the theater. Creswold was probably there at present. Brett and his friends were stopping outside the theater as Cranston's gaze went further on. He saw another man coming from the bank; namely Bigby. Immediately some farmers stepped from doorways, all with shot-guns.

"Bigby has deposited the insurance funds," stated Cranston. "The farmers must have convoyed him down here. They're getting into a huddle, too. I think their minds are going back to something--"

There was a pause in Cranston's tone as he watched the farmers gesture along the street. Bigby listened, chin in hand, and finally nodded.

"Back to that fire at Fairfield farm," continued Cranston. "They've accepted Brett's alibi at last, so they're beginning to think in terms of someone else. This means that Creswold is going to receive two sets of visitors who want to question him on separate counts. This calls for a third faction, so come along!"

With those final words, Cranston had transformed himself into The Shadow, at least in terms of action.

He and his stout-hearted agents were starting from the room, to pit their small number against huge odds.

Yet they could easily prove to be the balance, considering that they were entering a situation involving rival factions that could hardly get along.

Though the groups that represented Bigby and Brett were suddenly directing full attention upon Creswold, they were doing so for separate reasons and upon different counts.

More important than the centering of several charges upon one individual, was the fact that the unexploded feud between Bigby and Brett was packed with new dynamite and was ready to blow.

The Shadow knew! XVI.

IT ALL started in the office at the Star Theater, as reliable witnesses were later to affirm. There, Herbert Creswold, turned from his desk to find himself confronted with a revolver bulging from the hand of Preston Brett.

Backed by two staunch friends, Brett was holding something in his other hand. It was a bandana handkerchief, knotted to form a mask. Brett had picked it up just within the alley door. Dangling the thing, Brett tossed it upon Creswold's desk.