Weeks had passed since Ferret had come to Middletown. Despite its location in a thinly populated region of the Middle West, the city was used to strangers, and it was an easy matter for a newcomer to become accepted there.
Ferret had learned this. Living in a downtown rooming house, he had made many acquaintances, and was now a settled resident. Moreover, he had a job — one that presented attractive possibilities. Ferret was a teller in the Middletown Trust Company, the bank situated in the center of the block he had noticed on his first day in town. He represented the first of a new group of employees who had slowly been engaged during a minor reorganization of the bank's staff.
On this particular day, Ferret was busy at his window, conducting himself in typical teller fashion. Ferret looked back and forth with sidelong glance, and grinned as he sat behind his window. A depositor, approaching the window, mistook the grin for a pleasant greeting, and waved his hand in a friendly manner.
"Hello, Mr. Hawkins."
"Good afternoon," responded Ferret.
With the customer gone, Ferret's grin continued. He looked to his left, where the other teller's window was located. A small sign by the grated window bore the legend:
Mr. Ellsworth
Ferret glanced at the man behind the window. Ellsworth was a new teller here. He and Ferret had become but recently acquainted, as far as Middletown knew. But the big bluff face was one which Ferret knew well. George Ellsworth — known to Ferret as Butcher.
Across from the barred windows was a desk that bore the sign:
Mr. Exton Cashier
There was Major, seated at the desk, discussing a loan with a local business man. Major made a good banker, Ferret decided. He might have been a cashier all his life, as far as observers were concerned. Ferret and Butcher, tellers, were capable ones, but not so effective as Major, the cashier. Yet the three could not compare with the austere individual who was now entering the private office in the corner. He was the banker par-excellence.
David Traver President
Judge looked the part. He was built for that position. He was the most outstanding bank official that Middletown had ever boasted. No wonder, Ferret thought. Judge had been here for a long while, rising in the affairs of the community.
The rest of the bank workers were local talent, chiefly girls. Their positions were of a clerical nature. The other officials of the bank, excepting Judge, were men of small caliber, who depended entirely upon the wisdom of the president, who had brought success to their local enterprise.
The doors of the bank were closed now. It was after three o'clock. Business had not been heavy, and it took Ferret only a short while to finish up. Waving to Butcher as he passed, Ferret left by the front door of the bank, the old watchman opening the big gate to allow the teller's passage. On the street, Ferret nodded cordially to several persons he passed. People were friendly in Middletown.
Ferret sauntered past various stores, and turned the corner as he came to the downtown end of the block. He glanced at the sign upon a plate-glass window. It read:
Middletown Funeral Parlor
A man was standing behind the window. He had a gloomy, melancholy air, his face pale in contrast to his black frock coat. He was wearing a pointed collar, with a black bow tie. His expression was ministerial. He seemed content with his environment.
Wrapped in his thoughts, the undertaker paid no attention to Ferret's sidelong gaze. Ferret laughed to himself as he continued up the street. The man who presided over the Middletown Funeral Parlor was none other than Deacon.
Ferret was chuckling with admiration. If Judge made the ideal bank president, Deacon was certainly unsurpassed as a funeral director. Ferret remembered the day — not long ago — when Deacon had made his debut here.
The funeral parlor had been for sale. Deacon had arrived in town, to look over the business situation. He had immediately arranged to purchase the place.
Now, Howard Best was the new Middletown undertaker. He had started in enterprising fashion. A shipment of modern caskets had arrived in town to replace the antiquated coffins which had made up the former stock.
Ferret lounged along the street, and finally reached the house where he lived. He was to dine at the home of the bank president. Others would be there, and after dinner, Ferret expected a most important discussion.
It was six o'clock when Ferret wended his way to the residence of David Traver. The bank president was a bachelor, who lived alone. He had made it a habit to invite certain of his employees and associates to dinner, on occasion. Tonight, Ferret, respected under the name of Joel Hawkins, rubbed shoulders with some of the elite of Middletown.
One man, in particular, engaged his interest. That was Harvey Bronlon, who was the most important man in Middletown.
Bronlon had become a great factor in the life of the community. That was apparent from the conversation that passed between him and Judge during dinner — conversation to which all listened with intense interest.
"There are great days ahead for Middletown, Mr. Bronlon," declared Judge, in an impressive tone. Bronlon nodded his massive head. A huge bulk of a man, he looked like an overfed lion. He stared about the group with eyes that peered solemnly from beneath overhanging eyebrows.
"If Middletown is progressing," he said, "such capable men as you are to be thanked for it, Mr. Traver."
"No," said Judge, shaking his head in a kindly manner. "A bank merely reflects the prosperity of the people, and adds to the stability of the community. It is a man like you, who possesses enterprise, that brings progress."
Bronlon seemed pleased by the compliment.
"So far," he declared, rather proudly, "my foresight has been realized. When I built the big central block a year ago, every one doubted its possibilities. Look at it now, Mr. Traver. Every footage of front is occupied. Your bank is there. The County National holds a corner. We have the largest store in town, two restaurants, an undertaking establishment—"
He waved his hands to indicate that his property was all rented.
"Remarkable forethought, Mr. Bronlon," observed a guest. "I have often wondered where you have gained your keen knowledge of the future."
"There is nothing remarkable about it," replied Bronlon, in a somewhat modest tone.
"First, I have my own plant and other business as an index. We are employing more men than ever at the canning factory. Up there, we have had but one difficulty in the past. Strikes." Several persons nodded their heads reminiscently.
"Strikes, gentlemen," continued the manufacturer, "threatened the progress of Middletown in the past. It was not until I solved that problem that this community became assured of the prosperity it now enjoys. My bonus system was the solution."
"The workers are satisfied now?" someone inquired.
"Satisfied and loyal," asserted Bronlon. "Within the next few months, a large annual bonus is due them, by agreement. I hope to please them by declaring it in advance."
All present knew that Harvey Bronlon was speaking correctly. The number of employees at his large factory had increased to more than three thousand, all residents of Middletown and the surrounding villages. He had large interests in other enterprises. He had established the bonus system in some of these.
Moreover, Bronlon, due to his position in the canning industry, furnished the outlet for farm products throughout the entire region. He was coming to that very point in his discussion.
"Middletown," he said, "is the natural center for this region. I saw its possibilities when my business was developing. We have a key city here, and I have done my best to make it thrive. Middletown's population is not large, compared with other cities. But its importance is tremendous, when you consider it the center of a definite area."
All nodded in agreement. Harvey Bronlon had painted a striking picture of the conditions that existed here. He had neglected the negative side of his story, however.
Other towns, which had formerly shared laurels with Middletown, had been stifled in their growth. They, like the rural sections, were dependent entirely upon the key city. Harvey Bronlon had assumed the position of a feudal lord, holding sway over an extensive region.
The dinner had drawn to a close. Bronlon arose and shook hands with Judge. He announced that he had an appointment for the evening, and left.
Judge accompanied him to the door, Bronlon walking heavily and leaning on a stout cane. A chauffeur, stationed outside, saw his bulk in the doorway, and pulled up in the limousine. Without the officious industrialist, the party at Judge's home had paled. Most of the guests were men who sought to curry favor with Harvey Bronlon. They had come because of him; they were leaving now because he had gone.
Judge, beaming in a friendly manner, shook hands one by one. As a man in good standing with Bronlon, he was also a figure of importance in Middletown. But he, alone, could not hold the throng. At last, all that remained were Judge, Major, Butcher, and Ferret. Deacon was absent.
The new undertaker in Middletown had not yet gained sufficient prestige to be a guest at one of the bank president's exclusive dinners.
There was nothing to excite comment in the sight of a bank president conducting three of his employees to a study in his home. Once there, Judge eyed them calmly.
"We begin tonight," he said quietly.
"Tonight?" asked Major.
"Yes," said Judge with a smile. "I begin. Perhaps you begin also. Not just as you have expected."
"What's up?" questioned Butcher.
"Delmar is coming here within an hour!"
They were surprised at Judge's statement. Roland Delmar was the head of the County National — the largest bank in Middletown. The Middletown Trust Company was a small institution compared with the County National.
"What's he coming here for?" asked Butcher.
"You will see," said Judge.
Major alone nodded. He looked at Judge and smiled. Perhaps if Deacon had been present, the solemn-faced man would have smiled, too — although Deacon was sparing with smiles.
"Do you see that door?" asked Major. "When we hear the bell ring, the three of you go in there. You can listen. Then I won't have to tell you so much afterward."
"It means we're going to—" began Butcher.
Judge stopped him.
"Yes," he said. "Deacon and Major have been doing night work. Some that you expected; other that may surprise you. That is all you need to know just now, Butcher. Let the rest come — from Delmar." The topic changed. Ferret listened keenly, and his shrewd eyes looked from one man to another. Tonight was to be the beginning. For the others, perhaps, but not for Ferret. He dated the beginning of his new career with that night in New York.
Ferret's eyes gleamed as he smiled. None of his companions had spoken of the death of Daniel Antrim. The case had not been mentioned in recent New York newspapers that Ferret had bought. No one, Ferret thought, could know one iota of his connection with the death of the crooked lawyer. Police and gangs alike were in ignorance. Who else mattered?
Ferret did not know of The Shadow!
The Shadow knew!