THE SHADOW ARRIVES
“So you are Theodore Galvin’s nephew,” said Zachary Mitchell.
Bob Maddox nodded.
“I remember you as a boy,” declared the old, gray-haired lawyer. “You have changed greatly — according to my recollections. Ah, well — we all change.”
“You were a close friend of my uncle’s, were you not?”
Zachary Mitchell smiled cannily.
“Scarcely more than an acquaintance,” he said. “Yet in reality, his best friend.”
Bob Maddox seemed perplexed by this paradoxical statement. But he made no immediate reply.
“I have been quite anxious to meet you,” he said. “In fact, I have been waiting here quite a while.”
“You should have called me.”
“I did call — they said you would be back shortly.”
“Which meant a couple of hours,” smiled Mitchell. “Well, that is one of my peculiar traits. I have never valued time.
“But tell me, have you any special purpose in this visit, other than a friendly call?”
“Yes,” was Bob’s answer. “I came, hoping to find some information regarding my uncle. I thought that perhaps you might give it to me.”
Zachary Mitchell eyed Bob closely.
“Why do you think that I might have some information?” he asked.
“From what Hodgson said.”
“Hodgson?”
“Yes. My uncle’s old trusted servant. You know” — Bob’s voice broke as he pretended sudden sorrow — “Uncle Theodore died in Paraguay. I am sure that he would like to have talked to me — or to some friend. But he was unable even to write.
“Old Hodgson — I sent him away on a vacation, a few days ago — spoke to me confidentially and mentioned your name. Until now, I have not had the opportunity to call to see you.”
“Ah, yes. What did Hodgson say?”
“Nothing specific. Simply that my uncle had told him I should communicate with you. Evidently my uncle had forebodings when he went away.”
“Hm-m-m.” Mitchell was thoughtful. “Do you know much about your uncle, Robert?”
Maddox shook his head.
“Then I am going to tell you something about him; something that you must never repeat.
“Theodore Galvin had dealings with certain men — I have no knowledge of their identity — who were dangerous!”
Bob Maddox raised his eyebrows in well-feigned surprise.
“FOR some reason your uncle feared those men. Perhaps — I say this impartially, reviewing the hints that your uncle made privately — his own affairs were a trifle — er — unusual. Perhaps he had definite reasons for going so far away as Paraguay.
“But of one thing I am certain. Your uncle desired to protect something which he possessed — namely, wealth.”
“His estate is quite small,” declared Bob.
“That is on the surface,” declared Zachary Mitchell. “I speak now of hidden wealth.”
Bob Maddox kept control of himself. Only a gleam in his eye betrayed his restrained interest.
“The fact that you have come to me,” said Mitchell, “is proof in itself that you are following instructions from your uncle.
“I was not his attorney. I had no business dealings with him. That is, none, except one — which was secret.
“He knew that I could be trusted. He told me of his possessions, and arranged that I should turn over their key to the right person.”
“His heir?”
“Presumably. But the key would be useless to you unless you possess other information.
“I have an envelope that tells specifically of a hiding place somewhere in New York. It describes a room, but finding that room would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
Bob Maddox appeared puzzled. Of all his evil adventures, this was the strangest.
Here, in an apartment high above the roaring street, in the quiet sitting-room of an old attorney’s suite, he was trying to gain the clew to a mystery that savored of medieval castles and buried treasure that lay beneath moated walls.
“How then can I obtain it?” he asked.
“It may not be intended for you,” smiled Mitchell, wanly.
“Why are you telling me about it?” asked Bob.
“Because it will do no harm,” was the answer. “I am telling you only because you are Theodore Galvin’s heir.
“He left you residuary legatee of his entire estate. I have seen his will — and therefore his secret possessions belong to you, if you can find them.
“I have definite instructions. I am to wait for the person who brings me a special paper which your uncle possessed. It gives the clew to the hiding place.”
“What is the paper like?”
“I have never seen it. Theodore Galvin told me that I would understand it when I saw it. Without it, I am helpless to aid.”
Bob Maddox fumbled in his pocket.
“Is this it?”
He passed over the sheet of paper which he had received at the Cobalt Club. Zachary Mitchell’s eyes lighted.
“Where did you get this?” he exclaimed.
“From Thaddeus Westcott.”
“Ah, yes. Your uncle must have left it with him.”
“He did leave it with him. To keep until he returned. Or” — Bob felt that a lie would help the story — “to give to his heir if he did not return.”
THE explanation suited Zachary Mitchell. He did not know that Westcott had simply given the paper to Bob because he did not know what else to do with it.
Bob maintained his silence. He made no mention of the fact that this paper was a duplicate of the one which Reynold Barker had found in Theodore Galvin’s secret drawer.
Zachary Mitchell was chuckling. His eyes beamed as he studied the paper before him.
“Your uncle was right,” he declared. “He said that I would understand. I do understand. Simple, now — but I would never have guessed.”
“You can solve the code?” questioned Bob, eagerly.
“What code?”
“The code on that paper.”
The old man laughed. “This is not a code,” he declared.
“Not a code? What—”
“It is a map,” said Zachary Mitchell, quietly. “A map of New York streets, with your uncle’s house as the starting point.
“Look” — Bob leaned forward, intently as Mitchell explained — “and observe those double lines. Your uncle’s house faces south. You go one square east, then one south.
“Connect the next symbol. Another square south, another east. Connect the next — one more east. Then a single square on a diagonal street, running southeast—”
Bob clutched the paper as the old lawyer paused. Here was the clew — the map of New York streets that led to a spot some eleven squares away from the old mansion where Theodore Galvin had lived.
“But what then?” he questioned. “Where will the hiding place be?”
“I have read the instructions in the envelope,” declared Mitchell, calmly, now convinced that Bob was fully entitled to all information. “It gives a number and describes a room, telling how the key can be used. That makes it obvious.
“At the end of your trail you will, in all probability, come to one of the many buildings which your uncle erected.”
The old man opened a table drawer and drew out an envelope. Bob tore it open and began to read. Mitchell also handed him a key, which Bob took without looking.
“There, in the proper room,” said Mitchell, “you will find the hiding place specified. It was probably known to one man only beside your uncle. That is the architect who designed it — undoubtedly Richard Harkness—”
Bob looked up startled at the name. He remembered now that Harkness had been on the point of making a statement when Clink had fired the fatal shot. So that was it! Harkness, to save his life, had intended to speak.
THERE was some sign in Bob’s face that startled Zachary Mitchell. The old attorney stared narrowly at the young man.
Bob did not notice the look. He was again reading the contents of the envelope. The telephone rang. Bob looked up again; then resumed his reading as Mitchell answered the phone in a quiet voice.
The lawyer’s conversation consisted entirely of short replies. Some one was giving him information, yet the shrewd old attorney did not betray the fact.
He was listening to a quiet voice — the voice of Burbank — and it was carrying both a warning and an explanation. The Shadow’s agent was thwarting the schemes of Bob Maddox and his fellow plotters.
Mitchell hung up the receiver and turned quietly toward his visitor.
“There is something else,” he said, calmly. “I had almost forgotten it. Read the letter again.”
As Bob Maddox obeyed, the old lawyer reopened the table drawer. He turned.
Bob looked up, to find himself staring in the muzzle of a revolver!
“You filthy crook!” declared Mitchell firmly. “You are not Robert Galvin. You are an impostor! Your name is Maddox. You are one of the crooks whom Theodore Galvin feared!”
Maddox did not deny the impeachment. He cowered momentarily before the threat of the revolver; then regained his bearing. He looked shrewdly at Zachary Mitchell.
“What of it?” he asked. “Old Galvin was crooked, too. He double-crossed the Chief. We’re only after what belongs to us.”
“Part of it may be yours,” declared Mitchell. “But as it now stands, possession has priority.
“Robert Galvin is entitled to whatever wealth may be in that hiding place. You have tried to rob him. Where is he? Murdered?”
“No,” replied Maddox, calmly. “He is tucked away somewhere. We didn’t want him to make trouble.
“Look here. There’s enough of a haul for all of us. If you want a split, we’ll give it to you.”
“Very considerate,” commented Mitchell, sarcastically. “I shall end that little game, right now.”
He reached for the telephone with his free hand.
“Wait!” blurted Maddox. “What are you going to do?”
“Turn you over to the police,” replied Mitchell, his hand on the receiver. “You will be charged with the abduction of Robert Galvin!”
A CHAOS of thoughts swept through Bob Maddox’s brain. The abduction of Robert Galvin! What of the murders of Hodgson and Betty Mandell? He was responsible for both!
Desperation seized him. It would be better to die now than later.
As Zachary Mitchell lifted the receiver, Maddox threw himself frantically upon the old lawyer. The gun barked. The shot came too late. Maddox thrust Mitchell’s arm aside just as the lawyer pulled the trigger.
They grappled now, and all the advantage lay with the younger man. He held Mitchell’s wrist in a powerful clutch.
He was sure that the shot had been fired before the downstairs operator had answered the telephone, for he heard a clicking begin while they were struggling.
They were grimly silent, for Maddox had driven his hand into Mitchell’s mouth and had thus prevented an outcry. Now the old man began to weaken. Maddox flung him violently across the room.
Mitchell tumbled as he struck the wall. The revolver clattered on the floor. Maddox leaped to the telephone and placed the receiver on its hook.
He turned, just in time to see Mitchell crawling for the gun. It was almost within the old man’s grasp.
Maddox reached in his pocket to pull out his automatic. The gun caught as he hurried.
The old lawyer picked up his revolver. He was on his knees, steadying himself with one hand as he fired hastily with the other. Had his aim been sure, he would have ended the fray. But the old man’s strength had gone; his hand wavered and the shot went wide.
Then came an answering report as Maddox loosed a bullet into the lawyer’s body. Zachary Mitchell collapsed upon the floor.
Excitedly, Maddox picked up Mitchell’s revolver. He gathered the sheet of paper with its mapped symbols, the letter and the key. He stood uncertainly in the center of the room; then spied a small rug near the door.
He stooped forward and turned down one corner of the rug. Then, he hurriedly left the apartment.
Scarcely had the door closed before the man on the floor began to move. Bob Maddox, fearful of further shots, with their attendant noise, had taken it for granted that Zachary Mitchell was dead.
In that he was not far wrong. The old man was dying. But he groped forward along the floor to the chair where Maddox had been sitting.
There his hand encountered the pencil with which the young man had been tracing the plan of the map. With an effort, Mitchell raised himself to the table. On a sheet of paper, he wrote the name of the killer — the name he had learned in the telephone warning.
Maddox shot me.
Mitchell’s hand faltered. The pencil dropped from nerveless fingers.
With a final effort, Zachary Mitchell reached for the telephone. He could do no more than push the instrument from the table. The receiver came off the hook as the telephone fell to the floor.
The old man lay prone, gurgling incoherently into the mouthpiece of the telephone. Then, he lay still.
The door of the room opened an instant later. Into the apartment strode a tall man in a black cloak, his features hidden by the brim of a slouch hat.
The keen eyes, peering from their shelter, saw everything. The man in black leaned over the body of Zachary Mitchell. The old lawyer was dead.
The Shadow had arrived — too late!