VINCENT ESTABLISHES HIMSELF
The time was well past noon when Harry Vincent drove into the driveway that led to Blair Windsor’s pretentious home. His ring at the front door was answered promptly by a middle-aged manservant. At his request to meet Garret Buckman, he was ushered into a large parlor.
The man whom Vincent sought arrived a few minutes later. Garret Buckman was a genial individual — fifty years old, or thereabouts. His plump face beamed, and his hairless pate glistened. He approached Vincent with the outstretched hand of good-fellowship.
“Hello, Vincent! I’ve been expecting you. Had a wire from old Claude Fellows, yesterday. Great chap, Fellows. Old friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“That’s correct.”
“Any friend of his is a friend of mine. Glad you stopped in to see me. I want you to meet the other folks here. Maybe I can arrange for you to stay a while. You aren’t in any hurry to get along, are you?”
“Well — no,” said Harry, doubtfully. “I was driving up to Vermont. Happened to see Fellows before I left New York He told me to be sure to stop here, and to send his regrets.”
“Maybe you’d better forget Vermont,” urged Buckman. “Wait till I talk it over with Windsor. Come on. I want you to meet him.”
He took Harry’s arm, and led him through a hall. The click of pool balls came from the other end of the passage.
They entered a room where four men were gathered about a billiard table. The game paused as they entered. A young man, with friendly countenance, came to greet them.
“This is Mr. Windsor,” introduced Buckman. “Meet Mr. Vincent, Blair.”
Harry felt an immediate liking for Blair Windsor. The man’s personality was genial. He was a virile type, with an expression that betokened comradeship. He had the physique of an athlete.
The others were introduced.
Philip Harper was a short, stocky person, who thrust out his hand in a nervous manner. Vincent reckoned his age as past forty. Perry Quinn was younger — well under thirty. He was friendly in his greeting, but he displayed a certain reserve that impressed Vincent. This man might bear watching.
* * *
Harry Vincent withheld himself when he was introduced to the last of the four. The man’s name was Bert Crull. Harry felt quite sure that he was the young man whom he had seen in the farmhouse the night before.
Crull was a friendly chap, and seemed actually pleased to meet Vincent. His smile of greeting quelled Harry’s suspicions, and made him feel that the episode of the night before might have no significance.
“Gerry Buckman told me he expected you,” said Blair Windsor to Harry. “I hope you will stay with us as long as you can. We have open house here — for all my friends, and for all their friends.”
Harry laughed.
“I didn’t intend to walk in on you this way—” he began.
Blair Windsor waved his hand.
“This is a real invitation,” he said. “It’s not just politeness. We have plenty of room for you. You’ll like it here — it’s the best spot in New England. We want you to stay.”
“Windsor means that,” interrupted Buckman, urgingly.
“All right,” agreed Harry. “This is wonderful hospitality, Mr. Windsor. This is one of the most delightful places that I have ever visited. I shall be glad to stay for a few days.”
“Make it a few weeks, if you can,” replied Blair Windsor, as he returned to the table, and sighted along his cue. “Stay with us all summer, if you like.”
The amiable surroundings were pleasing to Harry. He and Buckman walked outside while the others were finishing their game. Then they rejoined the crowd, and the six gathered in the large living room.
The day was warm; all the men were in their shirt sleeves. The view from the living-room window was excellent. Blair Windsor’s summer home was indeed an attractive haven, and Harry could hardly believe that anything was amiss.
The only cloud in the conversation came late in the afternoon. Blair Windsor’s genial face became suddenly sober, when he brought up the subject. His gray eyes were solemn as he spoke.
“Boys,” he said, “I can’t understand it about old Henry. I don’t believe that he could have killed Frank Jarnow; but it does look bad.
“I talked with Henry. He was stewed when he went to see Frank. That may account for it. Henry’s great fault is liquor; yet I can’t see how it could have made a killer out of him.”
“Frank seemed O.K. when he was here,” observed Perry Quinn. “But I can’t understand why he left so suddenly. He was gone before we knew it.”
“He was probably worried about his job,” explained Blair Windsor. “He was rather dubious about staying two weeks. I understand that he called Henry by phone. They were old friends, you know; in fact, I only knew Frank through Henry.”
“Blair has had an unfortunate experience,” confided Buckman, to Vincent. The two were sitting together in a corner of the room.
“Frank Jarnow, who was staying here, went home several days ago. He lived in Philadelphia, and knew Blair’s brother, Henry.
“They evidently had a quarrel; Jarnow was shot, and killed. Blair had to go to Philadelphia for a few days to see if he could help straighten matters.”
“Well, gentlemen,” came Blair Windsor’s voice, in a cheerful tone, “there’s no use worrying about it. I talked with Henry’s lawyer. He’s a good man, and hopes to clear Henry.”
“That’s all that can be done.”
“Let’s forget it. It’s my problem, and I can only wait for further developments. In the meantime, your companionship is a real inspiration. I mean that, sincerely.”
* * *
At five o’clock, Harry remembered that he had left his bag in the village five miles away. He left in his coupe, and covered the distance rapidly. Then he started back, but turned off a side road into the woods.
Here, in a spot well away from observation, he set up his wireless, and sent a message, telling what he had accomplished.
A reply came shortly afterward.
Send reports by mail. In case of emergency, establish wireless communication. Call Fellows by long distance in case of extreme necessity. Meanwhile, listen for advice from WGG, three o’clock; WNX, six o’clock, and nine o’clock.
Harry was back at Blair Windsor’s in time for dinner at six thirty. After dinner, the men sat down to a game of cards.
Despite the fact that they all appeared to be wealthy, the stakes were low. Blair Windsor explained the circumstances.
“Many friends visit me,” he said to Vincent. “Some of them do not have a great deal of money. We play for the enjoyment of the game itself. Any who do not care to indulge are not compelled to do so.”
The other members of the company approved the statement. It was a genial crowd of men, all in accord, and harmony.
Harry tried to analyze the situation. He figured that any trouble which might be brewing was surely directed toward Blair Windsor, the host.
Why should this man have enemies? The only reason that seemed logical was that Blair Windsor had wealth.
Were any of these men plotting against Blair Windsor?
Harry peered above the cards which he held in his hand. He eliminated Garret Buckman, immediately. Philip Harper might be a possibility.
Perry Quinn was more so. He was the one man in the crowd toward whom Harry felt anything that might be considered dislike.
Of course, Bert Crull must be included. The episode in the farmhouse might be significant. Yet Crull was proving himself a most genial character. He seemed to have Blair Windsor’s full friendship. Harry realized that he must gain more information.
“What time is it?” asked Philip Harper, suddenly.
“After nine,” said Blair Windsor.
The short man went to the radio.
“Meant to tune in on that thriller hour, on WNX,” he said. “Maybe we can still catch the end of it.”
He turned the dials of the radio.
* * *
Harry listened intently as the program came on the air. Two speakers were in the midst of a dialogue. The listeners paused in their card game, as they sought to catch the thread of the story.
“It’s nearly dawn,” came one voice, in low tones.
“Not yet,” were the words of the other speaker. “Look at your watch. What time is it?”
Harry Vincent became tense, as he caught the emphasis on the word “watch.”
The other talker was on the air.
“Four o’clock” were the words.
“It will be dark for two more hours. Do you think the man will be here by five?”
“Yes; and he must pass within a few feet of us. I have seen him go by here — at least nine times.”
Harry’s intent mind had assumed a semi-hypnotic state. The only words that he seemed to hear were those that were emphasized. There were no more stressed words. The rest of the story came to its termination.
“Watch for dark man — five feet nine.”
That was the message that flashed through Harry’s brain.
There were two such men here at the table. The description suited Perry Quinn better than it did Bert Crull. Both were the same height. Both were dark-complexioned, but Quinn’s hair was almost jet black, in contrast to Crull’s deep brown.
The voice of the announcer came from the radio. It was a sinister voice, that spoke in a weird whisper.
It was a voice that startled Harry; for it seemed familiar.
He listed to its tones — not to the words. The voice ceased. An uncanny laugh followed.
As the mocking tones reached their whispered crescendo, Perry Quinn leaped to his feet, and turned off the radio. His face seemed hard, as he came back to the table, to be greeted by puzzled looks.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Blair Windsor.
“It gives me the creeps,” said Quinn.
The other men laughed — all except Bert Crull. That fellow seemed thoughtful, but his face was impassive. He finally smiled slightly.
“Whose deal?” he asked quietly.
Harry Vincent’s thoughts were active while the cards were being dealt.
He had received instructions over the air. They were orders from The Shadow, artfully inserted in a radio dialogue.
After the instructions he had heard a laugh — a laugh in a voice that he had heard before. It was the laugh of The Shadow — and Perry Quinn had not relished that laugh!