Four men were seated in a comfortable smoking room, puffing their cigars. Harvey Bronlon was entertaining David Traver, president of the Middletown Trust Company, together with the mayor of the city, and a State official.
The financial affairs of Middletown had been the subject of discussion. Judge, in his most convincing tones, had told of the great work performed by his bank. The others had listened in approval. Middletown was relying upon its Trust Company, the mayor said. The State official emphasized the need of salvaging the wreck of the County National Bank, so far as the surrounding communities were concerned.
"Suppose," said Judge quietly, "that we begin immediately by opening branch offices.
For the present, they need only serve our own depositors who are located outside of Middletown proper. I am willing to do this work."
"Excellent," said the State official.
"You may announce it, then," said Judge. "On Monday, I intend to supplement our present organization with new employees. I prefer, however, to avoid hiring any who were workers for the County National. While Hubert Salisbury is undoubtedly the man responsible for thefts in that institution, nevertheless, it would be best to create an entirely new staff of workers, rather than take on any who were associated with the defunct bank."
"I agree with you, Mr. Traver," said Bronlon.
"How will you arrange it?" asked the mayor.
"My cashier and my two tellers are capable, trustworthy men," replied Judge. "I shall relieve them of their present duties, and send them to survey the field. I intend to roll up my sleeves, gentlemen, and handle the cashier's work myself. I have selected certain men among the clerical staff whom I can insert as capable tellers."
"Whatever you suggest, Mr. Traver," said the State official. "We rely entirely upon your judgment. You speak of rolling up your sleeves. You have done that already. Your service in this crisis has been marvelous. The assets of the Trust Company — seemingly inexhaustible — have sustained confidence. The whole district owes you a debt of gratitude—"
The speaker stopped as a servant entered. The man looked toward Bronlon, who asked what was wanted.
"It's Mr. Best, sir," announced the flunky. "He came with the truck, and everything has been unloaded as you instructed. He asked if you wanted to see him—"
"Best, eh?" Bronlon laughed. "Tell him to come in." He turned to the others in explanation.
"Best is the undertaker," he said. "Very enterprising chap. He bought a new stock of caskets, and put the old ones up for sale at cost. I bought a supply of them. We have a little funeral parlor of our own, over at the settlement where the factory workers live. I intend to turn the caskets over to the man in charge. Just one of the many provisions that I constantly make. Funerals are regrettable, but we have them, just the same."
Deacon, solemn-faced, appeared at the door and quietly bowed to Harvey Bronlon, with an obsequious air.
"Come in, Mr. Best," said Bronlon. Without rising, he introduced Deacon to the guests.
The undertaker shook hands. When he came to Judge, he was most courteous in his greeting.
"Ah, Mr. Traver," he said. "I shook hands with you at the banquet, the other night. I'm pleased to meet you again, sir. Pleased indeed. You have done much for Middletown." Judge made a sign as he smiled indulgently. Deacon caught it. He knew that it meant for him to remain waiting outside.
When Deacon had gone, there was a short silence. Then Judge remembered that he had neglected to make a telephone call. He excused himself and departed.
"Did you notice that fellow Best?" questioned the mayor. "The look on his face, when he shook hands with Mr. Traver? You wouldn't expect an undertaker to have a lot of sentiment. But he's caught the spirit of admiration for David Traver, like the rest of us. A wonderful man, gentlemen, a wonderful man! A great boon to Middletown!"
Outside, on the porch, Deacon was waiting. The truck had pulled away. The hearse was at the foot of the drive. Judge stepped into the darkness and pressed Deacon's arm.
"Did you see Major or Ferret?" he questioned in a low voice. "Before you came away?"
"No," replied Deacon softly. "I left Butcher there."
"That's all right," said Judge. "They ran into trouble tonight. They were trapped, by The Shadow." In spite of himself, Deacon could not repress a low, startled exclamation.
"I was there," continued Judge, his voice scarcely audible. "I finished the hound with one shot. Luckily, nothing was heard. Major and Ferret dragged him away — into the passage."
"They didn't come to me—"
"Because I told them to wait for Butcher."
"Ah, that explains it."
"What instructions did you give Butcher?"
"I told him to leave, with Major and Ferret."
"Good! Major will see that all is right. He will put the body in one of the caskets. It's up to you to get it out."
"Monday," responded Deacon. "I'll take a look tomorrow, Judge. I don't want to go in there again, tonight. Leave it to me. I'll have a scheme figured out for Monday morning."
"You'll hear from me tomorrow night." said Judge. "I'm going for a trip with Bronlon in the morning. Either you or I will hear from Major, anyway."
"I'll take a look around outside when we've put the hearse in the garage," declared Deacon. "But it would be bad for me to go in there now, especially as there's nothing I can do tonight."
"Go past the bank, too," suggested Judge. "See that everything is quiet. Call me if you notice anything that appears suspicious."
He thumped Deacon on the back and stepped quietly back into the house. When Judge reached the smoking room, Bronlon and the guests were awaiting his return.
"Where were we?" asked the mayor, anxious to resume the trend of the interrupted conversation.
"Talking about coffins," said Judge, with a smile.
Harvey Bronlon laughed.
"Before you go, Mr. Traver," he said, "I want to show you that storage room under my garage, where they put those coffins. You would admire it. It's like the strong room of a bank."
"I should like to see it," said Judge. The conversation went back to banking. Judge showed interest, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He knew that Deacon could phone him here without risk, and would not hesitate to do so.
As the minutes went by, Judge gained a satisfied feeling. With his four subordinates on the job, no news was the best that he could have. There was no ring from the telephone in the outside hallway. Convinced that he had slain The Shadow, Judge was content with the fact that the remainder of the work was of minor consequence.
He knew that he could rely on Major. Thus the disposal of The Shadow's body had been nothing more than routine. The only possible danger — and that was remote — was the bare chance that the shot which Judge had fired in the bank might have caused a delayed alarm.
But that chance was fading now. Deacon was in the vicinity by this time, and he was the ideal man to check upon the situation. Major, Ferret, and Butcher had been told to take to cover for the rest of the night. But Deacon could saunter the streets of Middletown as he pleased. Thus the absence of a report was reassuring. Judge forgot his slight worries and devoted all his thoughts to the subject now under discussion.
In his mind's eye, Judge had pictured Deacon, methodical and unobtrusive, strolling about the block where the bank building was located. In this mental image, Judge was quite correct. Deacon was coming back from the downtown garage, where he had left the hearse driver. He passed the corner where the County National Bank loomed dreary and forlorn. He stopped to light a cigar outside the Middletown Trust Company.
His shrewd eye looked through the darkness toward the side entrance. His searching gaze was raised toward the upper windows of the banking room. All was quiet. Not a glimmer of light. Deacon strolled on; he came to the front of his own establishment, and observed that all was well. With no one in view, he sauntered to the side door through which he had instructed the others to leave. The door was locked. Deacon had thought of communicating with Major; but this proof was sufficient to satisfy him. One rule of the Five Chameleons was to avoid unnecessary communication. Tonight, of all nights, that rule was wise. Back in the street, Deacon cast another glance toward the silent building. Then he walked away, heading along the street toward the apartment house where he had a three-room suite. He pictured the events of this evening. Major had told him of the unknown menace called The Shadow. Together, they had wondered. While they had puzzled, Judge had prepared. He had been there to meet The Shadow — to end the menace with a single, well-timed shot.
The Shadow was dead! The big job was complete! The labors of the Five Chameleons had reached the desired climax! Deacon's close inspection had proved that all was well. The solemn-faced man was congratulating himself.
But Deacon had studied buildings, only. His keen eyes had ignored the ground beneath his feet. Back on the sidewalk in front of the undertaking establishment, lay a trail of evidence that he had overlooked.
A splotch of blood — another farther on — a third, glaring beneath the light of a street lamp, across from the undertaking parlor. A fourth — a fifth — a sixth then the trail ended. These marks traced the first stages of the path which The Shadow had followed.