WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT
THE following afternoon, Rutledge Mann was again seated in his office in the Badger Building. Once more he was considering a newspaper clipping. This one told of a more startling case than the death of George Andrews.
The body of Dale Wharton had been washed ashore on Long Island. This was a step toward the solving of the mystery which had shrouded the disappearance of the wealthy sportsman. But both police and journalists had met with disappointment.
The latest report — the one on Mann’s desk — said that the police could find no evidence of foul play.
Wharton, it was known, had been under the influence of liquor when he had started on his trip through Long Island Sound. Two bottles, one empty, the other nearly so, had been found in his pockets:
Everything indicated that Wharton had fallen overboard from his boat and had drowned. This solution was both simple and practical.
An intoxicated man, at the helm, might well lose control of the craft. A sharp turn, and overboard he would go. That, the authorities said, was what had happened to Dale Wharton.
Yet this case was not a closed issue so far as Rutledge Mann was concerned. The investment broker was patiently awaiting a report from Clyde Burke.
In response to instructions from The Shadow, Mann had dispatched the alert reporter to Long Island. Burke had found no difficulty in convincing his city editor that a look into the Wharton death might be advisable.
The afternoon was waning. Burke’s report should be there soon. Mann showed no signs of impatience, but he was actually anxious to obtain progress in this matter.
The telephone rang. Mann answered it. He recognized the voice of Clyde Burke. The reporter’s message consisted of a single, cryptic word that came over the wire.
“Identical!”
That was all that Rutledge Mann heard. It produced immediate action. He called a telephone number and repeated the word to the man who answered. After that, Mann waited.
It was nearly five o’clock when the stenographer entered the private office, carrying an envelope.
“This came through the mail chute,” she said.
Mann took the envelope. He closed the door after the girl had gone. Then he began to read a message from The Shadow — another of those strange, fading notes that told its story in cryptic code, then disappeared so no prying eyes could study it.
REACHING for the telephone, Mann called the Metrolite Hotel. He was connected with a guest named Harry Vincent. In a quiet voice, Mann inquired to whom he was speaking; then said:
“This is the Sea Breeze Realty Corporation. Our building plans offer a man a real opportunity at small investment. Once you have studied our offer, you will be interested.”
“I don’t think so,” came Vincent’s voice. “I spend my summers in the Middle West. I’m not interested in beach lots.”
Rutledge Mann hung up the telephone. In that short conversation, he had sent a very definite order to Harry Vincent. He had emphasized certain words. Phonetically, those words declared: “See R. Mann at once!”
Fifteen minutes later, Harry Vincent appeared in Rutledge Mann’s office. Like Clyde Burke, Harry was admitted to the inner room. For he, too, was one of The Shadow’s trusted agents.
Rutledge Mann placed two clippings in Harry’s hand. One told of the death of George Andrews; the other was the story of the finding of Dale Wharton’s body.
“Yesterday,” declared Mann quietly, “Clyde Burke saw the body of Andrews. To-day he has seen Wharton’s body. Upon the throat of each man was a thin, almost invisible white line. Each forehead was seared with a faint, round mark. Both men were murdered; both were stamped by the man who killed them.
“You will observe that Andrews and Wharton were both socially prominent. There is a third man missing — one whose absence has not yet reached the newspapers. He, too, is socially prominent, and may have suffered death at the hands of the same murderer. The missing man’s name is Robert Buchanan.”
“Is there any trace of him?” questioned Harry.
“None to our knowledge,” Mann said, “but there is one place where an investigator might learn something concerning him.
“Robert Buchanan was engaged to a girl named Margaret Glendenning, who lives with her uncle. The old man is a recluse. Clinton Glendenning is his name — a retired manufacturer.
“This afternoon, following Burke’s report, I received an important message, instructing you to call on Clinton Glendenning and question him in reference to Buchanan. This should be a surprise visit, during the evening. Here is Glendenning’s address.”
HARRY was warmly enthusiastic. He had worked often in the service of The Shadow. He loved adventure, and here was another opportunity for it.
Matters had been quiet during the past month, and Harry had been considering a short trip to his Michigan home in the little town of Colon. Now, with The Shadow calling him to duty, he would remain in New York.
“After dinner,” said Mann, “go to Glendenning’s home. Interview the old man — and, if possible, talk with the niece.”
The conference ended. It was nearly six o’clock. A myriad of twinkling lights could be seen from the window of Rutledge Mann’s office.
Harry Vincent descended to the street and went back to the Metrolite Hotel. After dinner, he set out for Clinton Glendenning’s home.
Harry sensed no danger as he rode northward in the taxi. On the contrary, he felt that he was bound on a very tame mission. It was one that might require shrewdness; that was all.
Because his errand was a secret one, Harry discharged the cab near the address to which he was going and walked the remaining distance.
The street on which the dismal Glendenning house stood was quiet and deserted. Tonight it was undisturbed by the storm which had marked Don Hasbrouck’s visit. Nevertheless, Harry, like the detective, felt tense as he climbed the steps to the door of the house.
All about was shadowy blackness. Harry could not shake off the feeling that some one lurked in the darkness, watching him. But, as he remained in front of the door, the sensation diminished. Harry pressed the bell and heard the lonely, gonglike note.
The door opened. Harry’s path was blocked by a young man who stood in the dim vestibule.
“I would like to see Mr. Glendenning,” said Harry.
“I’m sorry, sir,” was the reply. “I cannot disturb him. You should have called to make an appointment.”
Harry edged his way into the vestibule.
“My name is Harry Vincent,” he declared. “It is urgent that I see Mr. Glendenning. I will not require much of his time.”
“I’m sorry—”
An interruption came from the head of the stairs. Clinton Glendenning’s querulous voice reached the men in the vestibule.
“Who’s there, Larkin?”
“A gentleman named Vincent,” called the secretary.
“Does he wish to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him upstairs.”
The old man was back in his room when Harry entered with Larkin. Curiosity, rather than welcome, was apparent in Glendenning’s attitude. He was seated in his chair, and he eyed Harry sharply.
Harry sat down and looked at the old man. Larkin took his self-effacing stand within the door. In a friendly tone, Harry stated the purpose of his visit.
THE moment that Robert Buchanan’s name was mentioned, a change came over Clinton Glendenning. An angry expression appeared upon his face. His hands clawed the arms of his chair. Then the old man quieted.
“I do not know where Robert Buchanan is,” he said slowly. “He went away some time ago. He happened to be here the night before he left. For that reason, I have been annoyed frequently by a man who is trying to locate him.
“The fellow came here two nights ago, and I was forced to tell him once more that I knew nothing of Buchanan’s whereabouts.
“If your visit is a subterfuge, you are not welcome. If you have really come to inquire fairly about Robert Buchanan, you have heard my answer.
“I have no idea whatever where the young man may be!”
“I am sorry to have caused you any trouble,” said Harry quietly. “I am not in New York all the time — in fact, I had expected to leave town tonight. But it is urgent that I should meet Buchanan. I was told that he was engaged to your niece—”
“He was,” interrupted Glendenning. “That’s all forgotten. Robert Buchanan disappeared two months ago. That ended the engagement. Robert Buchanan is no longer welcome here. You will have to look elsewhere for him!”
“No one seems to know where he is,” said Harry gloomily.
“I understand that,” said the old man, softening a trifle. “Two nights ago a detective named Hasbrouck was here. He is a private agent, employed, I believe, by Buchanan’s relatives. They, too, are wondering where the young man is.”
“A detective named Hasbrouck?”
“Yes. Don Hasbrouck. He went away when I assured him that I had no idea where young Buchanan might be. Perhaps if you communicated with Hasbrouck—”
“My time is rather limited,” said Harry. “I shall look up Hasbrouck — but you say that he does not know where Buchanan can be found?”
“He may know by now,” declared Glendenning. “He told me he was going to see a friend of Buchanan’s a man whom he expected in New York night before last. Let me see” — Glendenning tapped his forehead thoughtfully — “what was that friend’s name? What was it, Larkin? Do you remember?”
“Not offhand, sir,” replied the secretary hesitatingly.
“I have it!” exclaimed Glendenning. “Hasbrouck was going to see a man named Jerry Middleton! That’s who it was! I have heard nothing from Hasbrouck since. There was no reason why I should.”
“Jerry Middleton,” repeated Harry Vincent thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that name. It’s very important that I find Buchanan. Perhaps—”
He paused and arose as Margaret Glendenning suddenly entered the room. The girl was attractively gowned, and Harry was immediately impressed by her beauty. But he also detected a worried, unhappy expression in her eyes. She looked at Harry; then at her uncle.
“My niece,” was Glendenning’s introduction. “Sit down, Margaret. Mr. Vincent and I were just talking about Robert.”
“Has he been found yet?”
There was a peculiar tone in the girl’s question. It seemed to carry a note of suppressed anxiety.
Harry saw the situation in an instant. The girl, evidently, was worried about Robert Buchanan. At the same time, she was probably trying to keep in her uncle’s good graces.
The old man did not care for Buchanan. The girl, to please her uncle, was trying to forget the man she had loved; but past memories were difficult to overcome.
“I am trying to find him,” declared Harry.
He was looking toward the girl as he spoke. Harry noticed that Larkin was no longer in the room. Then he became intent upon the girl’s next statement.
“We have no idea where Robert is,” said Margaret. “I think that he should have let us know where he went. Perhaps” — her voice broke momentarily — “perhaps something has happened to him.”
“I do not think so,” interposed Glendenning. “We would have heard about it long before this. People do not vanish into thin air unless they have a good reason to depart for places unknown. Buchanan left town because he wanted to get rid of you — to let you down!”
THE harsh statement caused Harry to feel a dislike toward Clinton Glendenning. Harry looked at the girl sympathetically. She seemed almost on the point of tears. Larkin came back into the room while Harry was studying the girl.
“The best plan for you, Margaret,” said Glendenning, in a tone that was not unkindly, “is to forget Robert Buchanan. I never regarded him as worthy of you. You have promised to forget him.”
“I know it,” said the girl bravely. “Good night!”
She left the room hastily with eyes averted. Harry fancied that he heard her sobbing as she went down the hallway. The girl’s emotion was genuine. Did she know more than she had said?
Harry watched Larkin. The secretary’s face was grave. Harry felt that he would like to quiz this man.
“That is all,” said Clinton Glendenning coldly. “I bid you good night!”
He rose from his chair and left the room, leaving Harry alone with Larkin. The interview was over, but Harry knew that he had gained by it.
He knew that a detective named Don Hasbrouck had visited Clinton Glendenning as recently as two nights ago. He knew that Hasbrouck had intended to communicate with a man named Jerry Middleton. Both items were valuable as information.
Accompanied by Larkin, Harry went downstairs. He felt a distaste for this gloomy old house. He donned his hat and coat, and while he was standing in the hallway, Larkin went up to the second floor, leaving the visitor to find his own way out.
Harry’s sleeve brushed against something; he turned quickly and stared suspiciously at a velvet curtain beside him. Acting upon impulse, he raised the curtain and stared into the blackness of the room beyond.
Then he laughed at his own suspicion of danger. He dropped the curtain.
Opening the door, Harry stepped forth into the night. There was no cab in sight, so he began a walk toward the corner.
Ordinarily, Vincent would have been very much alert. Before he had entered the house, he had been suspicious of his surroundings. Now, his thoughts were so occupied with the facts he had learned that he paid no attention to anything near by.
But before Harry had gone a dozen paces, there was a movement on the opposite side of the street. A man was lurking on the other sidewalk, keeping pace with Harry’s stride. When Harry reached the corner, he crossed the street to hail a cab.
It brought him close to the corner of a darkened building. The man who was following stood silent, sheltered by the corner. Harry never looked in his direction.
“Hotel Metrolite,” said Harry to the cabman.
The words were loud enough to be heard by the concealed observer.
As Harry’s cab rolled away, the watching man came into the light. He was of medium height. He was wearing a dark overcoat, which had made his form indistinct in the darkness.
In the light of the avenue, the man’s face was visible. It formed an evil, sinister countenance, with wicked lips that grinned maliciously.
The man whistled to a passing cab. The vehicle pulled up to the curb. The watcher entered.
“Hotel Metrolite,” he ordered. “Make it quick!”
The cab shot away. Then, from the thick darkness of the side street, another form emerged. A tall figure in black came into view. He was attired in a flowing cloak that hung from his shoulders. His visage was concealed beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat.
From an unseen post in the darkness, this man of the night had seen all that had transpired. Now, with long, swift strides, he was moving along the avenue, toward the kiosk of a subway station, a block away.
The tall, black-clad figure disappeared into the subway. Less than a minute later, an express rumbled into the station and stopped at the platform beneath the street. It was bound downtown.
THE next trace of the man in the black cloak was when he appeared in front of the Metrolite Hotel. His soft hat was turned down over his eyes. He merged with the blackness at the side of the building.
Scarcely had he taken his stand, before brakes screamed as a taxi pulled up to the curb. Out of the cab stepped the man with the evil, wolfish face. He walked a few paces away and assumed the attitude of an idler watching the street.
Another cab arrived. Harry Vincent alighted. He went into the Metrolite Hotel, and the shrewd-faced man watched him closely. The fellow laughed sullenly as he observed Harry’s features. That laugh meant that he would recognize Harry Vincent when he saw him again.
The man turned and walked along the street.
From the blackness of the building came another laugh. It was soft and mirthless — scarcely audible.
A phantom shape emerged and trailed the man who had been watching Harry Vincent. The following form was almost invisible as it took up the pursuit.
Upstairs, in his hotel room, Harry Vincent thoughtfully made out a report. He was reciting the facts that he had learned tonight.
In the back of his head lurked a suspicion that some key to the disappearance of Robert Buchanan could be discovered at the home of Clinton Glendenning.
Harry was totally oblivious to the fact that he had been followed on his return to the hotel. He did not know that a hidden man had tracked him in the dark.
But The Shadow knew.
The Shadow was at work!