Part 7 (1/2)
”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, slas.h.i.+ng 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 cas.h.i.+er'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 cas.h.i.+er 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.