participant in the game of crime.
Flicking his flashlight on Gruble's toothy mouth, The Shadow saw that the
scrawny man was dead. His flattened pockets, outspread coat, showed that he
carried nothing on him. Though The Shadow had not yet learned Gruble's
identity, he classed him as an important cog in the crime machine.
Possibly Gruble's usefulness had ended tonight. Those shots that had
killed him might have been ordered by the master criminal. Whatever the present
schemes of R. G. Dean & Co., there was one man close at hand who might provide
some useful information regarding them.
The Shadow was thinking of the driver who was operating this rapidly
moving car.
Rising, The Shadow pushed his automatic over the top of the front seat. He
wondered, momentarily, why the driver had not turned on the bright lights; for
the lane, though straight and rutted, was quite steep and showed only hazily by
the glow of the dimmers.
The question was answered when The Shadow pressed his gun point against
what seemed to be the driver's neck. A high-collar coat slumped downward, a
shabby felt hat rolled to the floor. The car was driverless; the figure at the
wheel was nothing but a dummy, that fell apart under pressure of The Shadow's
gun!
Some crook had released the hand brake, to let the sedan roll down hill
under its own momentum. It wasn't in gear, it was in neutral. This car was
slated for destruction, and Gruble - whether alive or head - was suppose to go
with it. The same applied to any chance passenger who might have joined Gruble
for the ride.
The Shadow was such a passenger. By the dashlight, he saw the object that
had propped up the fake driver. It was a thing shaped like a big pineapple.
Still keeping to the deep ruts of the straight lane, the sedan was doing close
to forty, and ahead, something gray was looming into the dull glare of the dim
lights!
HEADLONG, The Shadow dove across the car. His hand, shooting ahead of him,
slashed the door handle downward with a single sweep. As on a previous night,
The Shadow took a reckless, breakneck dive out into the open, but this time the
impelling force was entirely his own.
Shoulder first, The Shadow hit the ground beside the lane, rolled over
three times and bumped his head against a chunk of rock. With that forceful
blow came a fierce blast of light, a huge roar that seemed to burst The
Shadow's head.
Those were not illusions, caused by the thump that knocked The Shadow
senseless. The swaying sedan had reached the end of the lane, only thirty yards
ahead. The gray mass that it struck was a stone wall. The crash had bounced the
pineapple against the steering wheel.
The blast was the explosion of a huge bomb, that ripped the halted car to
shreds, dismembering Gruble's body and destroying all traces of the dummy
figure at the wheel. Another of the death devices designed by R. G. Dean had
done its appointed work.
More narrowly than ever before, The Shadow had escaped the fate that the
master crook had so often tried to deal to him!
CHAPTER XIV
THE MISSING SWAG
THREE men reached the stretch where The Shadow lay unconscious. One was
Harry Vincent; with him were Joe Cardona and Vic Marquette, the Fed. It was
Cardona who spoke the identity of the well-dressed fighter, when he saw the
pale, blood-streaked face in the glare of a flashlight.
"Lamont Cranston!" he exclaimed. "I thought he'd gone to South America!
Say - the commissioner will be upset when he hears about this. Unless" -
Cardona did not intend his afterthought to be humorous - "unless the
commissioner is still sore about Cranston shipping all those squawking birds to
the club."
Harry and Marquette were stopping beside the outstretched figure.
"His head is all right," said Harry. "That cut isn't very deep."
"He took it on the shoulder, though," observed Marquette. "It looks like
it was dislocated. We'd better get him to a hospital."
Cranston up to the mansion. Harry Vincent guided them with a flashlight,
keeping close watch to see that no one jarred the injured shoulder.
Near the head of the lane, they found a waiting limousine. It was
Cranston's car, Stanley, the chauffeur, had driven it across the lawn and
through the hedge. They put The Shadow into the rear seat, and two of the
carriers told Stanley how to get to the nearest hospital.
It was Harry who spoke later to the chauffeur, just as Stanley was about
to drive away. Harry undertoned the words:
"Better take him to Dr. Sayre."
Stanley nodded. He wasn't one of The Shadow's agents, but he knew Harry to
be a close friend of Cranston. Furthermore, Stanley was familiar with some of
Cranston's eccentricities. He knew that his employer had a habit of poking into
strange and troublesome places; that when he needed a physician's services he
always preferred to go to Dr. Rupert Sayre.
Thus, with Stanley's assistance, Harry had seen to it that The Shadow
would not meet with any new complications while unable to handle them.
It was quite clear to Harry that the bomb-laden sedan had been partly a
trap for The Shadow, should he appear upon the scene tonight. The big brain who
had baited that snare would certainly make allowance for The Shadow being
injured; not killed.
If so, the Long Island hospital would be watched, in case Lamont Cranston
happened to be sent there. Any watchers provided by R. G. Dean would certainly
be capable.
The master crook's mobbies had demonstrated that they were clever. Not
only had they grabbed Weylan's pile of wealth; to a man, the tribe had vanished
after the running fight from the house to the hedge.
In battling the thugs, Weylan's guests had taken some trophies in the way
of handkerchief masks, flashlights and guns. By picking up lost revolvers, they
had been able to continue the pursuit, harrying the mobbies all the more. But
they had failed to capture any of the swift-footed crew.
Crooks had made a complete getaway in the blackness. A complete search of
the grounds around Weylan's house failed to reveal any hiding of crippled thugs
who might have been deserted by their scattering pals. Nor was there any trace
of a single dollar or bond that had belonged to Carter Weylan.
RETURNING from an inspection of the blasted car, Cardona and Marquette
joined in the fruitless search for men and money. It was Cardona who expressed
the opinion that the swag might have been in the sedan with Gruble; but
Marquette thought it unlikely, for he felt that they would have found some
traces of it.
Carter Weylan took his loss philosophically, on the ground that he would
no longer have the money if he had paid it over to Gruble, the agent for R. G.
Dean. He felt that he had exposed the master crook's racket, and therefore had
a good chance of reclaiming his lost fortune.
While police and servants searched the house, on the chance that the
bundles had been stowed there by the hurried crooks,
Weylan went around
congratulating the party guests, thanking them for the timely aid that they had
given him.
Such chaps as Fitzcroft and Caulden were nursing scratches, black eyes,
and swollen jaws, while a few had received minor flesh wounds that needed
attention. But there had been no serious casualties among them.
Weylan was particularly anxious to learn who had rescued him from murder
at the hands of Gruble, but no one took credit for the deed. Harry Vincent felt
it good policy to minimize the part that he had played in Weylan's behalf.
Harry was still worried over the matter of the vanished mob; he felt that
a few lurkers might still be dodging around Weylan's spacious premises. Some
might even be bold enough to eavesdrop near the house, in which case the less
they learned, the better.
Among those who received Weylan's congratulations was Ralph Atgood. He was
using Harry's policy of keeping silent, for two reasons. First, Ralph was
learning things that utterly destroyed his confidence in the beneficent Mr.
Dean; again, he had played no part in the fray wherein the other guests had
routed the mobbies.
Ralph had been dancing with Alicia when the lights went out. They were the
only couple on the floor, for the dance had just begun. Thinking the thing a
joke, they had kept on dancing, until gunfire alarmed them. By that time,
everyone else had gone crook-hunting except Ralph.
He felt very conspicuous in his unmussed evening clothes, while most of
the other guests were smoothing grass-stained coat lapels and pinning up torn
swallowtails. Alicia seemed to understand Ralph's thoughts, for she drew him
aside and mentioned the matter.
"I was to blame," she said. "The others were out on the veranda, or
strolling somewhere, when the trouble started. It was my fault, keeping you on
the dance floor, Ralph."
"I'd like to have gotten into it," returned Ralph, grimly. "Somebody
should have been able to recover a part of your father's money."
"Dad will get it back," assured Alicia. "The police have searched the
house, but they are out looking through the cars. Maybe the crooks threw the
package in somebody's automobile."
Alicia's hope was short-lived, for Cardona and Marquette soon returned,
stating that the cars had been inspected and that no cash had been found. They
said that the guests were free to leave, so the party began to break up.
After a short talk with her father, Alicia joined Ralph.
"I'm going on board the boat tonight," said the girl. "Dad thinks it would
be best. So you can drive me to the pier, if you wish."
RALPH was quite pleased by the opportunity. Alicia had the servants carry
her luggage out to his coupe. Most of the guests were waiting to say good-by to
Alicia; some of them helped the servants put the trunk and suitcases into the
rumble of Ralph's car.
Harry Vincent arrived from the house just as Ralph's car pulled away.
Since the rest of the guests were departing, Harry decided that it was time for
him to leave. He had many details that he wanted to report to Burbank, but none
of them included a theory regarding the missing swag.
Riding into Manhattan, Ralph was discussing that perplexing subject with
Alicia.
"From the lists your father had," he told the girl, "the cash and the
bonds would have made a stack a foot and a half high. That would be a pretty
big bundle for anyone to carry."
Alicia nodded.
"I know you trust the servants," said Ralph. "but I was looking them over,
just the same, to see if their pockets bulged. They didn't. They were as
smooth-fitting as the dress suits that the rest of us were wearing."
"Not quite so rumpled, though," laughed Alicia. "Did you see Percy
Caulden? He looked as if he had been through a mowing machine!"
Ralph dropped the subject immediately, remembering that his clothes were
the only ones that had not been partly ruined. They reached the pier and he
said good-by to Alicia at the gangplank, then started to drive back to his
apartment.
Wondering what to do about the Dean question, Ralph decided to wait until
the morning, in the hope that Weylan's lost wealth might be recovered. He
became a bit shaky at the thought that some shift of chance might cause him to
be branded as one of the crooked band.
Then came the satisfying thought that he had been treated like the other
guests, had been accepted as equally honest. He was glad that the police had
searched his car, along with the others that had been standing out front.
Perhaps, as matters stood, Ralph would be able to learn more about the
Dean organization and therefore supply the police with valuable evidence, when
he told them his truthful story.
Leaving the car in front of the apartment house, Ralph bundled up a light
topcoat that lay on the shelf behind the seat. He hadn't worn the coat tonight
because the weather was too warm. From the way it had been mussed, he decided
that the detectives must have looked through it while searching the car.
It was not until he entered his apartment that Ralph began to realize how
heavy the coat was. Shaking it, he found that the pockets were weighted.
Looking for the reason, Ralph fished in a pocket; his fingers felt the crinkle
of crisp paper.
Struck with a sudden alarm, Ralph spread the topcoat on a couch.
He was right. Weylan's pile of wealth made a big bundle, even when divided
into three packets, two in the side pockets of the coat, the third in the inside
pocket. Ralph's topcoat was literally stuffed with cash and salable securities,
to the extent of a quarter million dollars.
Ralph Atgood stifled a groan. Confronted by new mystery, he realized that
he was deeper in crime than he had ever supposed. The missing swag had turned
up - in Ralph's own possession!
CHAPTER XV
RALPH HEARS HALF
RALPH ATGOOD had long ago conceded that his true story, if told to the
police, would be considered flimsy. He had thought, at times, of confiding it
to some person who would not doubt his sincerity, such as Carter Weylan. In
fact while chatting with Alicia's father earlier this evening, Ralph had felt
that Weylan would believe him and give him sound advice.
He had decided to wait until after Alicia's party was over, and therewith
had made a great mistake. He realized, too late, that if he had told Weylan
about the Dean business before Gruble's arrival, it would have helped. But
crime's new stroke, delivered in Weylan's own home, had changed all that.
Right at present, Ralph's first course would be to visit Weylan and return
the stolen funds. Naturally, Weylan would be glad to regain the quarter million,
but he would want to know how Ralph had recovered it. That was the hitch, and a
big one.
Even Ralph, present possessor of the missing wealth, was unable to guess
how it had reached his car. The quick disappearance of the mob that had invaded
Weylan's house was a trivial mystery compared to this one. The crooks could have
been lucky enough to scatter and get to cars hidden some distance from Weylan's
&n
bsp; estate. But how, or why, any of them would have doubled back, to plant the
boodle in Ralph's coupe, was something quite unfathomable.
Maybe Weylan and the police would not consider it such. They might jump to
the simple idea that Ralph was more than a dupe; that he was an important cog in
the Dean organization. They would presume that Ralph, thinking the swag too hot,
was trying to ease himself out of the game by restoring the funds and pretending
that he had never really been in the mess.
They would want to know a lot about R. G. Dean, and when Ralph failed to
tell it they would discredit his dupe story altogether. Thinking that prospect
over, Ralph could picture himself undergoing a grilling at the hands of Cardona
and a squad of detectives.
They'd give him a going-over, until he cracked. But Ralph had often
wondered what happened to chaps who didn't "crack" for the simple reason that
they had nothing to tell.
Mopping the sweat from his forehead, Ralph wished that he was actually
guilty, instead of innocent. Then, at least, he could give himself up, tell
all, and take his proper punishment without going through an undeserved ordeal
at police headquarters.
Sight of the valuable bundles belonging to Weylan brought Ralph back to
his original idea: that of returning the money to its owner as soon as
possible. Out of a new flood of hopeless ideas came one that struck him like an
inspiration.
Alicia!
She would believe whatever Ralph told her. If he talked to her, and gave
her the recovered funds, she would willingly return the property to her father.
She was the sort, too, who would never tell where the recovered wealth had come
from, until Weylan had cooled enough to listen to a reasonable story. At least,
Weylan would give Ralph the benefit of all doubt, if Alicia insisted that he do
so.
IT was easy enough to reach Alicia. The cruise ship had an extensive
telephone system, connected with an outside wire. Calling the pier, Ralph gave
the number of Alicia's stateroom and received a sleepy-voiced reply.
When he told the girl that he wanted to meet her, she replied that she had
already undressed and gone to bed. It was plain that she wondered why Ralph