The Eyes of the Shadow s-2

by Maxwell Grant

  Harry Vincent left the office with the address of Isaac Coffran tucked away in his vest pocket. He was sober as he went down in the elevator. Fellows's words had been impressive; never before had the insurance broker talked so thoroughly. A tremendous crisis must have arisen, for The Shadow's detail man had exhibited unprecedented activity.

  Master minds were engaged in some uncommon crime. The Shadow was exerting all his power to defeat them. The Shadow would need many eyes to-night.

  CHAPTER X. INTO THE SNARE

  THE house of Isaac Coffran was an old brick building in an obscure street on the East Side. It seemed strangely deserted to Bruce Duncan as he rang the bell alongside the massive door.

  If his uncle's friend had not assured him that he should come at eight o'clock Thursday evening, Bruce would have decided that the house was unoccupied. For all the windows at the front were closed with iron shutters.

  Even now he hesitated. He had rung the bell three times, yet there had been no response from within.

  Still, it was exactly eight o'clock. It would be best to wait.

  The door opened suddenly. Bruce started backward as he faced a huge, dull-faced man whose features were marred by a livid scar across one cheek. The fellow was considerably over six feet in height, and his frame was powerful.

  "What you want?" demanded the man in a thick, guttural voice.

  "Does Mr. Isaac Coffran live here?"

  "Yes. What name?"

  "Duncan. Mr. Bruce Duncan."

  The huge man removed his bulk from the doorway and motioned for Bruce to enter. He stepped into a dimly lighted hallway, and the man closed the door and bolted it.

  "Wait here," he said, indicating a chair.

  The big attendant went up the stairs at the end of the hall. Duncan waited several minutes. Then he heard Isaac Coffran calling him from the head of the steps.

  "Come up, my boy," were the old man's words.

  Isaac Coffran seemed greatly pleased as he shook hands with Bruce Duncan in the upper hallway. He ushered his visitor into a comfortable sitting room at the back of the house.

  "Well, boy," said the old man, smiling and rubbing his hands with satisfaction, "I have your uncle's letters all waiting for you."

  "Have you looked through them?" questioned Duncan eagerly. "Did you find anything important?"

  "I have not had time to read them. I am leaving that work to you. It is your privilege; especially as the letters would not give me any clue. I am quite ignorant of what you wish to discover."

  "That's true. Where are the letters?"

  "In my study. I shall take you there in a few minutes. You may be a long while reading. So I have arranged everything for you to stay all night."

  "That's kind of you, Mr. Coffran."

  The old man looked at Bruce quizzically.

  "Were you surprised at the appearance of this house?" he asked.

  "Yes, I was," admitted Bruce. "I would have thought that it was unoccupied if you had not assured me that you would be at home."

  ISAAC COFFRAN smiled. "I am not at home except to a very few friends," he said. "I prefer to keep the house closed in this manner. I have retired from the world. This is a bad neighborhood, and it is necessary to keep the house well-barred. I can't think of leaving this old home. But it is safe here. No one can enter, and Pedro, my servant, is faithful and reliant."

  "He appears to be," Bruce remarked sincerely.

  "Yes, and he is ignorant. It is well that he should be. It is best never to trust important affairs to servants.

  By the way, your own servant - that Hindu - are you sure that he is faithful?"

  "Absolutely."

  "He might be connected with the theft that took place in your uncle's room."

  "I thought of that, Mr. Coffran. I'm sure that Abdul knew nothing about it."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I left him home."

  "You told him that he could reach you here, of course?"

  "I told him nothing. There is no reason why he should need to communicate with me. I trust Abdul, as I said; but I felt that my visit here should be kept secret. The Hindu cannot tell any one where I have gone if he does not know where I am."

  "That was a wise course, my boy."

  "In fact," added Duncan, "I told Abdul that I might not be home for days - or even for weeks. If I find a clue in my uncle's letters, I may start to follow it right away. So the Hindu has instructions to look after the house and wait until I return. You know how those Orientals are. He will stay on the job perpetually until he receives further instructions."

  "Very good," observed Isaac Coffran. "Being at the house, he will be available if you need him."

  "I was careful coming here, too," explained Duncan. "I left my car in a garage on the West Side and came this way in a taxicab. You and your servants are the only persons who know that I am here."

  A crafty smile appeared upon the withered face of Isaac Coffran. Duncan was startled as he saw the sudden change in the old man's features. But the next words of his uncle's friend were reassuring.

  "You are wise, my boy. From what you have told me, your uncle must have some enemy. I thought about it as I came home last night. We must be wise when we are dealing with unknown dangers. We must meet guile with guile. Your uncle was a brave and fearless man; better than that, he was keen and perceptive. He knew how to meet those who plotted against him. You remind me of your uncle."

  Bruce Duncan smiled. The old man's statement was pleasing.

  "Yes," continued Isaac Coffran, "you have come to the right place. I feel that I shall be able to give you good advice - after you have read your uncle's letters. Study them well, my boy; and remember everything that seems important. Then tell me what you have found in them. I am an old man; my memory is poor. Yet I have not lost my youthful ability to think clearly and cleverly. I believe that you will agree with me before long."

  "It is fortunate that I met you," agreed Duncan. "Even if nothing tangible is learned by this visit, I feel that I am getting somewhere. I want action; these three weeks of idleness have tried my nerves. I am ready for danger; in fact, I would like to encounter it."

  "Spoken like your uncle!" exclaimed Isaac Coffran. "He liked adventure, and he found it. Perhaps you will find it, too. But remember one thing. Caution is as important as daring. Guard your actions well."

  Bruce Duncan laughed.

  "Those words sound almost as if you were foretelling the future," he said.

  The old man smiled. He rose from his chair, took his cane, and motioned to Duncan.

  "Come," he said. "Time may be precious. You have work to do."

  LEADING the way down a dark hall toward the front of the house, the old man stopped at a door. He opened the portal and revealed a small room, lighted by lobed wall lamps. The apartment was lined with shelves of books.

  "Step in," he invited. "This is my study. A quiet, cozy place in which you will not be disturbed."

  Duncan entered the room. He noted that it contained no windows. It was a square room, with a desk in one corner where the bookcases ended. There was another special corner; it was almost an addition to the room - a small nook that projected into the wall.

  Evidently it was intended as a place for a reading corner; there was a chair there and a light in the ceiling above, which was lower than the rest of the room. But the light was not turned on.

  Isaac Coffran indicated the desk. A pile of letters lay upon it, under the beam of a small desk lamp.

  "Your uncle's letters," said the old man. "I have not even looked through them. I know that some of them date back as far as twenty years. They are all dated, I believe, and I have kept them in regular order from beginning to end.

  "My suggestion is that you read them one by one. Do not skip any of them. There may be references that will be explained in later letters. My only recollection of your uncle's writing is that he reviewed my replies in each succeeding letter. Hence they should all be self-explanatory.
/>   "Forget time, my boy. I shall be in the front room awake half the night. Read as long as you desire, and concentrate upon your reading. It is the only way to stimulate deep thought.

  "I shall close the door of the room so that you will not be disturbed. Should you wish to speak with me push this button beside the desk. It will summon Pedro, who stays up as late as I do."

  Bruce Duncan sat at the desk and opened the first letter. He recognized the firm writing of his uncle.

  Isaac Coffran placed a friendly hand upon Bruce's shoulder.

  "Read on, my boy. Let us hope that before you have finished you will know more than you do now."

  Duncan heard the door close behind the old man. There was a slight click of the latch. In comfortable silence, the young man began to read.

  Outside the study, Isaac Coffran stood quiet and alert, listening at the closed door. He raised his finger to his lips as Pedro came down the hall. The servant with the scar stood as motionless as his master.

  Minutes ticked by. Finally the old man smiled. It was a wicked smile, a cunning smile. It was a smile that would have startled Bruce Duncan had he seen it. It was a smile that brought an ugly, sneering grin to the face of Pedro.

  Then Isaac Coffran raised a long, thin hand and pressed a button high in the wall above the door. A panel slid noiselessly into place. It concealed the door completely. When it had closed, there was no break in the wall along the hallway. One would never have supposed that a room existed behind that spot.

  The old man stepped back and scanned the place where the door had been. The smile was still on his face as he raised his hands to his forehead and bowed. The action brought another grin to the face of the silent Pedro.

  It was like a little ceremony on the part of Isaac Coffran, as though he had bidden farewell to some one whom he did not expect to see again.

  CHAPTER XI. CRONIN SEES A SHADOW

  STEVE CRONIN looked over his shoulder as he walked through the lobby of the old hotel in Harrisburg. There was no one in view except the clerk behind the desk, yet the gangster felt uneasy.

  "Must be getting the willies," he observed to himself as he walked up the steps, ignoring the antiquated elevator. "Funny I never felt this way before."

  He paused at the door of his room. He looked back along the corridor. It was very dim back there - dim and shadowy. He stared for half a minute as though he expected some movement in the darkness. Then he opened his door, slipped his hand cautiously through the narrow space, and turned the switch.

  He entered the room quickly, looked about him, and closed the door. The brightness was somewhat reassuring, yet Cronin was not content until he had peered beneath the bed and in the closet. Then he lowered the window shade.

  The gangster sat in the chair which Harry Vincent had occupied on the previous night.

  "Funny," he murmured. "First time I ever felt nervous like this. Always laughed at guys that acted like they were scared. But to-night - whew!"

  He looked toward the closed door.

  "Even the stairs," he muttered. "They creaked like blazes. This must be an old place, all right. Sounded funny, though. Wouldn't have thought that I could have made all that noise coming up. Sounded like somebody was with me! Could have been, too, in all that darkness."

  He went to his grip and brought out a bottle. He took a long drink. Then he went back to the chair.

  Three taps on the door. Cronin started. He gripped the arms of the chair for a moment. Then he laughed.

  "Wally," he said. "Only Wally."

  He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back quickly. His henchman, Wally, looked at him, and Cronin was momentarily startled by the long shadow that was silhouetted upon the floor. Then he laughed again. He turned and walked back toward the window. Wally followed him.

  Steve Cronin turned suddenly. He saw the door still open. He stepped rapidly across the room to close and lock it.

  "What's the idea, Wally?" he demanded. "You ought to have enough sense to close a door in back of you."

  Wally stared in surprise.

  "What's the matter, Steve?" he asked. "You look kind o' queer to-night. Sort o' pale, ain't you? What's up?"

  "Nothing," growled Cronin as he sat in the chair by the window. He lighted a cigarette.

  "Yeah," reaffirmed Wally, "you look worried."

  "Maybe I am," admitted Cronin. "I'm going to forget it, though. Guess I've been jumping around too much lately. I don't know when this hit me, Wally. About a half an hour ago, I guess, in the restaurant."

  "What was the matter?"

  "Nothing. That's the trouble. While I was sitting there, it seemed as though somebody was looking at me.

  There were some people there, but none of them was paying any attention to me. When I looked around it was all right, but as soon as I began to eat again, I felt just like I had before."

  "Huh," grunted Wally.

  "All right," said Steve Cronin. "That wasn't all of it. As I was looking at the table, a big shadow fell right in front of me. A shadow like a man's head, with eyes like fire that burned into you. Then it was gone. I looked up quick. Nobody near me."

  WALLY made no reply.

  "All the way back to the hotel," continued Cronin, "it seemed like some one was following me. Through the lobby - up the stairs."

  "All over a shadow. Shadows can't bother anybody."

  "They can't, eh? I didn't think so, either. But there was a guy I knew once - a fellow they called Croaker.

  He went nuts over a shadow. Thought it was alive and following him. He wasn't any good at all after that.

  The boys bumped him off for double-crossing them, and I heard that when he went out he was still crying about The Shadow."

  "All bunk, Steve."

  "Bunk, nothing. I saw the guy the same night he died. He was telling me about The Shadow. He thought it was real. It made me laugh. But he wouldn't take much to convince me now that there is a real person - a real person called The Shadow."

  There was silence for a moment. Steve Cronin took another drink and put the bottle back in the suitcase.

  "Well," he said in a forced tone of briskness, "it looks like we're out of luck, Wally."

  "There ain't no sign of this guy Meyers," replied the henchman. "I've been watching for him. He's gone, all right."

  "Then he's back in Cleveland. He never stays away more than two days. I'll have to go back and begin operating again."

  "Guess that's the best thing. Say, Steve. What about the guy we - the guy last night?"

  "Him?" Cronin laughed. "He's out. You saw what I did. He didn't have a shoemaker's chance."

  "Nothin' in the papers about it."

  "Say, Wally, do you think that means anything? Maybe they haven't got the news yet. Even if they have, what of it? Thousands go out that way every year - clipped on railroad crossings. They don't call that news any more."

  "Ought to've been in the papers, I think."

  "Listen. I stopped at the station last night. Took a squint at the bulletin board. That train was forty-five minutes late. It was on time when we heard it whistling. Had about eighteen more miles to go. What do you think made it late? Maybe the engineer got out to pick some buttercups."

  "I get it, Steve," laughed Wally. "The loco must have knocked that touring car galley-west."

  "And left no traces of the mug who was in it," added Steve. "They probably thought the car had been abandoned. Forget that guy, Wally. Nobody will ever hear of Harry Vincent again."

  Steve went to the desk and turned on the little lamp. He consulted a time-table.

  "Eight fifteen now," he said. "There's a train for Cleveland about nine o'clock. Plenty of time for me to make it. That's where I'm going. You hang around here a while if you want. Take another look up at the hotel, then clear out for Philly."

  "We'll give up this Meyers proposition, then?"

  "Yeah. Wally, I think I've got the wrong dope this time. The guy never came to Harrisburg before. He couldn't have done it
very well and got back to Cleveland as quick as he used to. This must be a new proposition he's on. But he would have got back as quick as possible. So I figure he's there now, like I said. I'll pick up his trail again. I'd like to know why he came here - but there's no way to find out."

  "Well, all I know is he got in at nine thirty and was back at the station by ten o'clock."

  "Maybe he went right out to Cleveland again. There's a train around ten thirty, I think."

  "Guess that's what he did."

  Steve Cronin tossed a few articles in the bag.

  "I'll run along, Steve," said Wally. "If I see him up at the hotel, I'll drop over to the station before you leave."

  He unlocked the door and went out. Cronin continued packing. Wally had closed the door, but Steve did not bother to lock it, although he kept his eyes upon it.

  "Feel creepy again," he mumbled. "Guess I'll hop for the station."

  He walked to the door. He turned out the light, then noticed that he had left the desk lamp burning. The room was gloomy and shadowy under the dim illumination.

  He placed one hand on the doorknob. Then he glanced into the nearest corner - a space alongside the bed. It was quite dark there, and the blackness seemed to be actually solid.

  "Whew," said Steve Cronin aloud. "Look at that shadow! Looks real."

  He laughed, but without enjoyment.

  "Maybe it is real," he declared. "Hello, shadow! Let's see you wake up!"

  His nerve was returning as he uttered the words. But hardly had he finished speaking before his blood was chilled. His hand became limp upon the doorknob.

  For the blackness at which he gazed began to move. It did not move toward him. It moved straight upward. It rose like a huge sable specter - a thing that was living, yet which seemed uncanny in the dimness.

  Steve Cronin's fear-glazed eyes distinguished the outline of a black cloak with a broad-brimmed black hat that seemed to merge with the form beneath. From between the hat and the cloak glared two eyes that shone like beads of fire!

  Then came the voice - a low, ghostly voice; a voice deeper than a whisper. It was a voice that made Steve Cronin tremble, and its tones were weird and chilling.