The Shadow - Town Of Hate Part 7

"We came here to accuse you," announced Brett, "but we were willing to hear your story, Creswold. I mean your story about last night."

Creswold gave a quick, worried look at the firm, indignant faces. Then, ignoring Brett's gun, he managed to regain some of his shrewd calm.

"About last night?" he queried. "You mean about the payroll robbery at the mill?"

"What else?" demanded Brett. "We found that coat of yours. A tailor identified it as an old one he mended some months ago. But we hadn't thought of looking for the mask until we stumbled over it."

"Stumbled over it?" Creswold looked at the bandana exhibit as though he had never seen the thing.

"Where?"

"Inside the alley door, where you must have chucked it out of sight. We'd have found it last night, if we'd looked. I was fool enough to blame Bigby."

As Creswold reached for the bandana and began to examine it, a hard chuckle came from the doorway.

It was meant for Brett, because the man who uttered it was Claude Bigby. Gripping a shot-gun that he had borrowed from a farmer, Bigby was standing with two friends of his own.

"Glad to hear you're coming to your senses, Brett," sneered Bigby. "Only that doesn't mean you're taking Creswold. I've got a prior right."

Brett wheeled angrily.

"A prior right? On what?"

"On account of the Fairfield fire. We've found out that Creswold hired the car that showed up out there and tried to blame it on you."

"Maybe I did!" voiced Creswold, suddenly. "But people had been trying to blame me--"

Savagely, Brett interrupted by swinging his revolver toward Creswold. The weapon was brushed aside by a sweep of Bigby's shot-gun. Shoving the heavy muzzle against Creswold, Bigby turned to Brett, declaring: "I've got the prior right--"

"To what?" demanded Brett. "Creswold murdered Lenstrom before he burned Fairfield Farm! Lenstrom was my friend! It's my job to bring in the man who killed him!"

"What about the Old Bridge Tavern?" queried Bigby, coolly. "I've just found out that Zeke was phoning Creswold, right before it happened. That gives me an even earlier priority. If you don't like it--" To show what might happen if Brett didn't like it, Bigby brought the shot-gun full around. Creswold didn't wait another instant. With a bound, he reached the door, punched his way through the men who were standing there and started out toward the alley.

Two men were after him, so fast that they were through the door before the astonished witnesses could recover. Brett and Bigby, rivals to the limit, were each anxious to claim Creswold as a prize. Furiously they followed, slashing each other with their elbows. They reached the alley, where Creswold was ducking off behind the theater.

A revolver ripped; a shot-gun roared, but both weapons fired wide. Brett and Bigby were individually aiming after Creswold. Neither was willing that the other should score the hit. To men who were entering the alley, the running melee between Brett and Bigby looked like a completion of their own repressed feud. Both factions were represented by those witnesses; hence the result was instantaneous.

Brawny mill-hands launched after Bigby, swinging clubs that they had brought. Angry farmers hopped forward with shot-guns, intent upon downing Brett. By the time they reached the corner of the building, those two groups were tangled and clouting in ferocious style. The men who came piling from the theater were absorbed into the tangle. No one listened to their shouts concerning Creswold.

In fact, the shouters themselves forgot the man they wanted as soon as they were really in the brawl.

Warding off clubs and shot-guns that came swinging at them, they began to use their fists. Meanwhile, behind the theater, Creswold was climbing into a car before either Brett or Bigby could overtake him.

They had cars handy, too. Jumping into them, they continued the chase full tilt. Creswold was whizzing toward the bridge that crossed the Kawagha. Two cars were after him, side by side. It was as though Brett and Bigby mean to continue their elbowing process on a motorized basis.

All this was witnessed by The Shadow and his agents as they hurried through the dusk. No longer was The Shadow guised as Cranston. He had cloaked himself in the dash from the hotel. What The Shadow saw close at hand was more important than the pursuit of Creswold. That chase couldn't result in the death of many, but the brawl by the theater might.

With a quick-toned order, The Shadow launched his three agents into the fray as peacemakers.

They did their part well.

With drawn guns, Harry, Cliff and Clyde slugged weapons from the hands of brawlers, without inquiring who was right or wrong. Literally, they broke the fray apart. They left in their wake clumps of bewildered men, too dazed to figure what they should be doing next. The only trouble was that more were arriving, townsfolk and county residents both. They would have battered down The Shadow's agents, just to get at each other, if The Shadow hadn't personally intervened.

Fierce and mocking came a laugh that commanded all attention. Rooted in their tracks, astonished men stared beyond the theater. They saw a figure wheel into the lighted entrance of the hotel parking lot. They remembered that cloaked shape from the accounts of persons who had chased The Shadow around the neighborhood of Stony Run and Pow-wow Boulder. Whoever he was, and whatever, his presence wasn't welcome in Kawagha County.

The Shadow certified that fact by leveling his guns and jabbing shots at the men in the alley. They dodged in panic as the bullets whistled overhead and flattened against the wall of the theater. These local gentry didn't guess that those shots were purposely high, for The Shadow made them so by inches only. They figured that they were meant as actual targets. That was something calling for reprisal. As soon as they thought The Shadow was out of bullets, the men rose en ma.s.se and went after him. They saw him whirl across the street and off into the darkness past the hotel. Shot-guns ripped wildly as did revolvers. Others hurled chance missiles in the form of loose stones.

Back trailed a laugh that seemed to merge with the upper bend of the foaming Kawagha.

Off they went, the human h.e.l.l-pack. Thoughts of separate loyalty to Brett and Bigby were forgotten along with any worry over Creswold. At moments, a black blur traced itself against the white fleck of rapids.

Other times it was seen amid the gray of rocks. But never was The Shadow visible when his laugh trailed back from the deepening twilight.

First from one side of the Kawagha then the other. The Shadow was leading at least fifty men upon a wild, impossible chase that had them stumbling across the broken remnants of old dams, rolling from slimy logs that clogged the river, and wading through shallows that led to holes beyond their depth.

n.o.body realized the deceptive effect of that distant laugh, which might come from almost anywhere. Nor did they consider that the deepening dusk produced illusions of distance. Their occasional gunfire went far astray, any time they thought they saw the cloaked fugitive who was leading them on a Pied Piper journey.

Only The Shadow's agents understood how fully their chief was handling the situation. They knew he would be back in due time. As Cranston, he would join them in the hotel for dinner. Befuddled searchers would keep on plodding the banks of the Kawagha hunting for someone who was no longer there.

At least that should have been the climax, if word had not arrived concerning an earlier chase. The man who brought that word was Preston Brett.

Pulling his car up in front of the Kawagha Hotel, Brett climbed out. He hastened to tell eager listeners how he had fared in hunting Creswold. Brett's chunky face spread wider as he grimaced and shook his head. With an abrupt gesture he pointed off toward the hill beyond the river.

"I managed to get across the bridge first," declared Brett, in a note of brief satisfaction; then glumly, he added: "But Creswold ducked down the dirt road leading to the old ford below town. That's where I lost him."

When somebody asked what had happened to Claude Bigby, a smile relaxed Brett's stony lips.

"That part was really funny," declared Brett. "Bigby went right past the dirt road and around the hill. I could see his car lights going over the ridge past Fairfield Farm. He's probably out of the county by this time."

Stragglers were coming back from their useless hunt for The Shadow.

Brett was frankly puzzled to see them arriving from that direction. When he heard that they'd gone after a mysterious personage in black Brett was plainly annoyed.

"Creswold is the man to find," stormed Brett. "He's down the Kawagha, not up river. What's more, unless we find him, he's liable to come back--"

A clangor interrupted. It came from down the main street. Those who heard the brazen disturbance recognized what it meant.

It was the alarm bell in the Lamira State Bank! Turning on his heel, Preston Brett dashed in that direction. The Shadow's agents followed. Again, crime was under way in this town where murder was a pastime.

Crime without The Shadow present to prevent it!

XVII.

IT was last night's crime, almost in replica. Then, Preston Brett and his fellow-investors had suffered.

Now the boot was being put to Claude Bigby and his farmer friends.

In the cashier's office, a masked man, crouching behind his aimed revolver, was demanding the delivery of a strong-box. The box contained the cash just deposited in the name of the County Mutual Insurance Company.

The fact that someone had set off the alarm only hastened the process. The cashier hadn't yet put the money in the vault, so he could stall no longer. With trembling hands, he shoved the box across the table.

He then ducked for shelter behind the desk, as the revolver coughed above his head.

There was a side door out from the bank building. That was the route the masked marauder took, with the strong-box under his arm. He was diving from sight just as Brett came dashing in by the front. He was followed by a throng that included The Shadow's agents.

Brandishing his own revolver, Brett shouted the name he knew too well: "Creswold!"

Involuntarily the masked robber wheeled; then sensing his mistake, he fired a quick volley that forced his pursuers to cover. By the time they reached the side door, he was in a mud-stained car and wheeling around the bank building.

It was Creswold's car. It was showing the effect of its trip across the river ford, with a return by dirt road. This escape, however, was better planned than Creswold's frantic rush from the Star Theater, only a half an hour before. Here was masked flight accomplished with the same precision as the robbery in Brett's mill.

Only today had Creswold's car been delivered from the repair shop. It was in smooth-running order.

Instead of crossing the bridge, it hit the dirt road on the near side. It headed down toward the ford that Brett had mentioned. Others were starting after it, until Brett suddenly gained an inspiration.

Turning to the men nearest at hand, Brett blurted the notion that Creswold would probably reverse his course, once he had crossed by the river ford, to the far side.

"Those dirt roads would pocket him!" expressed Brett. "If we cross the river here, we ought to be able to pick him up along the road around the hill!"

Brett was gesturing to his own car. Among those who accepted the invitation to ride with him were Cliff and Clyde. Harry had left. He was to join Margo in the car that she was bringing from the parking lot up by the hotel. Hardly had Harry opened the car door before Margo said something about having him take the wheel. It wasn't necessary.

Another figure was entering from the other side. The Shadow was back from his brief trip up the Kawagha.

Tossing aside his slouch hat, dropping his cloak collar, The Shadow became Cranston again. He took thewheel and moved Margo over toward Harry's side. Using Brett's tail-lights as a beacon, The Shadow crossed the bridge. During the quick crossing, he listened to Harry's report of Creswold's roundabout flight and sensational return. It was Brett who had brought the news of Creswold's first trip across the shallow ford. If Brett's present guess proved right, there would still be a chance of trapping Creswold.

The guess was definitely right. As the cars. .h.i.t the highway around the lower slope, a pair of headlights emerged from the obscure dirt road that Brett had mentioned. The car whipped around like a scared rabbit. It took the curve beyond the hill, with both Brett and The Shadow gaining on it. Ahead was the driveway up to Brett's. It was the way Creswold had turned the night The Shadow was chasing him from Fairfield Farm.

That recollection must have clicked with the fugitive driver. He swung his car up toward Brett's, giving a burst of speed that added a little leeway. It was a clever move. The other cars would find it difficult to gain ground coming up those curves.

Once before, Creswold had escaped pursuers by deserting his car when he reached Brett's mansion. The policy still stood good. When the other cars arrived there, they found Creswold's mud-spattered vehicle empty. Not only was the driver gone, the bulky strong-box had vanished with him. Unless he had chucked it from the car, the robber would still be carrying it, as a troublesome burden.

Brett bawled that fact in urging his comrades to spread and search the premises. They did so with immediate zeal. More cars were arriving. They were the ones that had trailed Creswold's around through the ford. They too disgorged a horde of searchers. Flashlights were flickering everywhere among the trees. Brett was unlocking his front door in order to reach the roof. There he had installed a searchlight in connection with his aerocar garage.

When the searchlight's big beam sliced through the trees, it threatened to disclose The Shadow. So far, he had had been helping in the search for Creswold without encountering any of the men along the Kawagha.

To elude the penetrating blaze, The Shadow used the stepping stones above Pow-wow Boulder. He headed directly toward Bigby's homestead, where some lights were glowing in the window. As he reached The Gables, The Shadow saw Bigby's car standing in the driveway. A few moments later, some other cars came up the slope, honking their horns. The house door opened. Bigby stepped out with his faithful shotgun to hail some arriving farmers.

"See anything of Creswold?" queried Bigby. "I lost him on the way to Fairfield Farm."

"We saw him alright," returned a farmer. "He doubled back to town, that's what!"

"I should have known it!" spat Bigby, angrily. "You know that dirt road that comes around in back of the hill? I used it getting back here and all the while I was saying to myself that Creswold could have done the same."

"That wasn't what he did, Mr. Bigby. He came over across the old ford."

"Who says so?"

"Brett said so."

"Then Brett lied worse than ever. That ford is too deep for any car to cross."

"Not since Brett finished the new dam, it ain't," reminded a farmer. "The dam cut the water supply down below. You could tell that Creswold's car had been across the ford, from the way it got muddy comingalong the dirt road.

"All right," conceded Bigby. "But why did Creswold come back?"

A chorus of voices answered that query.

"To get our money!"

"The cash you left at the bank, Mr. Bigby!"

"He staged a robbery, that's what!"

"Masked the same as the last time--as if that made any difference!"

This outburst of facts threw Bigby into one of his madder moods. He began storming at his arch-rival Brett. He was shouting as though he hoped his voice could carry clear to Future Haven, where the searchlight was still making its circuit. Finally drowning Bigby's voice, the farmers certified to Brett's innocence on this occasion. They loudly declared that Brett had been the first man to try to stop the robbery at the Lamira State.

Gradually becoming mollified, Bigby finally turned hopeless. The loss of those funds was a crush to his hopes. Seeing the farmer from whom he had borrowed the shot-gun, Bigby tossed him the weapon and turned away. With bowed shoulders, Bigby went back into his house and closed the door.

A few minutes later, the searchlight was extinguished at Future Haven. Brett, too, it seemed, had given up hope of finding Creswold.

Moving back through the darkness, The Shadow noted a dwindling of the flashlight flickers. Searchers were leaving Brett's premises as they had begun to desert Bigby's. Despite the intensive effort to surround him, Creswold must have managed to get clear of this slope.

Crossing Stony Run, The Shadow paused beside Pow-wow Boulder. All that disturbed the silence here was the tumbling tumult of the run. He found the babble somehow conducive to thought. The Indians, too, had found it helpful. It struck The Shadow as an excellent place to hold a one-man conference.

Climbing the boulder, The Shadow felt it give a slight tilt, then settle with a clack upon the stones below its sandy bed. In piling up the sand, the creek had probably compensated by wearing down some of the foundation rock. Nevertheless the giant boulder would remain a landmark for many years to come.

Thoughts of those coming years caused The Shadow to contemplate others gone by. He recalled the local legend: how time after time, the Indians had used this starting point to begin attacks on the Bigby stronghold, beyond Stony Run. In those days, there hadn't been a mansion where Brett's house now stood. Not even a sheep pasture had occupied that other section of the slope. All this land was originally forest.

Always, rescue parties had arrived from those woods to relieve the beleaguered Bigbys. No matter how secretly or cleverly the Indians planned, their surprise attacks always failed. The Bigby family was clever, too, when it came to bringing help from the nearest settlement which in those days lay further down the Kawagha Valley.

Such was local history. It was the sort that could be read on a picture postcard or a hotel menu. Even some old stone inscriptions mentioned it. The Shadow recalled such markers in Lamira. Curiously, The Shadow found himself linking the past to the present. He was uncovering a long-buried secret to solve an existing problem. That was the problem of Herbert Creswold. The man had held the balance in the feud between Claude Bigby and Preston Brett. He had also played his own scheme well--in fact too well to suit The Shadow.

In one sudden surge of thought, The Shadow had the single answer that could supply all the missing links in a singular chain of crime.

Those searchers who were leaving the slope were departing in the half-dazed belief that Herbert Creswold was an arch-genius at disappearing from the midst of a man-hunt. They were probably giving him more credit than they had conceded to a mysterious cloaked personage who had earlier outguessed them along the banks of the Kawagha River.

What The Shadow had accomplished on the Kawagha, he could duplicate on Stony Run--and more. In fact, once before he had staged a rapid vanishing act at Pow-wow Boulder. Tonight he was willing to attempt it on a far more amazing scale. If it brought the final result The Shadow antic.i.p.ated, it would be worth the entire risk. Crime would vanish from this region.

Rising upon Pow-wow Boulder, The Shadow delivered a weird, sinister laugh that echoed like a ghostly challenge down the course of Stony Run. No Indian war-whoops had ever carried so curdling a message as that mad, mocking mirth. It reached a mighty crescendo and shivered into a shuddering silence.

The Shadow was calling all comers. Whether they would find him was a question still unsolved--like the crimes that remained unsettled despite the disappearance of Herbert Creswold!

XVIII.

THE moment that they heard the strident laugh, The Shadow's agents were on the alert. They could feel its chilling force as they watched the reaction on others. Guessing that their chief was trying to draw persons in his direction, the agents suddenly started in the direction of Stony Run, except for Margo, who was stationed in the car.

Other men followed the bold example, but with certain reservations. Instead of coming singly, some stayed in cl.u.s.ters. There were others who decided to circle up the slope and work down from the top.