The Shadow - The Shadow Laughs Part 16

"Who are you?" asked Harry, tersely. "It seems to me I'm the injured party. I won't talk until you do."

The stranger laughed unpleasantly.

"I'll tell you enough for your own good," he said. "I saw you once before-hanging around the farmhouse. I saw you come out from the side. You had a car down the road-hidden in the field. I walked by in the dark. I was too late to get you.

"So I didn't take any chances two nights ago. I nabbed you quick. I brought you here, and we're way out in the woods-alone. Your position isn't a comfortable one, is it?"

"No," admitted Harry.

"I made a mistake in grabbing you," admitted the stranger. "I thought of that as soon as I had you. But I had to go through with it. They've probably missed you by now, and it may give me a lot of trouble. So unless you talk-to-night-I'm going to put you in a worse place than this."

"Tell me who you are. Maybe I'll talk then."

"You ought to know who I am. Use your imagination. It won't take much."

HARRY did not reply. He felt that if he made a single statement regarding his ident.i.ty, he would get himself in for a lot of trouble. His situation was bad enough. Silence had not made it worse.

He knew that the men who were plotting against Blair Windsor were dangerous. This fellow appeared to be the worst of the crowd.

He wondered what had been said about his absence. He had imagined that it might cause considerable comment at Windsor's place. Then he realized that it could be easily explained by either Quinn or Crull -whichever was the traitor in the party.

A statement from either of the men would indicate that Harry had gone away for a few days. Perhaps his car had been removed. He hoped that the wireless equipment had not been discovered.The man with the black mustache drew two cigars from his pocket and gave one to Harry.

"Listen young fellow," he said, in a more kindly voice. "I'm not out to treat you rough. I figured It was my job to grab you, and I did.

"You know a lot that you aren't telling. You're going to tell it, sooner or later. So why not be friends? It may work out to your advantage."

He struck a match while he spoke, and lighted the tip of Harry's cigar.

The first puff convinced Harry that the stranger was a good judge of fine perfectos, whatever his shortcomings might be. The two men smoked in silence for a considerable time.

"How about it?" asked the man. "Want to talk a bit? This is pretty near your last chance."

Harry shook his head.

"All right," said the stranger, in an indifferent tone. "I'm going to move you out of here."

"Go ahead," said Harry. "It would be more interesting than staying here."

"Think so?" was the reply. "Better guess again."

The dark man arose, and produced a few coils of rope from a corner of the room.

"I've got everything here," he said. "I'm going to truss you up, young fellow. I may need those bracelets you're wearing. They come in handy when I have to work quick. So I'm going to put rope on you."

He began to bind Harry's ankles as he spoke.

"I'm going back to the old farmhouse," he continued. "Maybe I'll run into some new developments.

Perhaps I'll get a line on who you are. No telling what may happen.

"Then I'll be back. It will be your last chance to talk. If you don't open up then, I'll pack you in the car, and take you where you won't want to be."

He finished on Harry's ankles. Coming from behind he roped the young man's wrists. Then he unlocked the handcuff, and finished by tying Harry securely.

"I know it's lonely out here," he said. "I don't like to leave you, for your own good. But it can't be helped."

Moving the cot over to the corner, the stranger urged Harry Vincent from the chair, and rolled him on the improvised bed. He blew out the light, and Harry heard him leave the little building.

THE darkness was intense. Harry's wrists and ankles chafed as he strained against the rope. He began to crave action. There must be some way out of this predicament.

He rolled toward the side of the cot, and let his feet to the floor. Then he rolled off. He found that he could urge his body along in helpless fas.h.i.+on.

There was a table on which stood the extinguished oil lamp. Harry groped his way to the spot, and raised himself to his knees. He pushed his chin along the table, and b.u.mped a box or matches.

Here was a chance for escape! His captor had forgotten the matches which he had used to light thecigars. This was an opportunity!

Harry knocked the match box to the floor. After falling, and striking his head against the leg of the table, he gained a sitting position.

He brought his hands to one side as far as possible. Then he struck a match, and managed to set it on the box. His plan was to bring his wrists to the flame.

But the plan failed to work. He singed his wrists instead of the rope. He was in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, and there was imminent danger of his cuffs catching fire. The match went out.

Harry's second attempt was as futile as the first.

He realized that he must suffer considerable pain, if he insisted upon this method of escape. He could not see his hands, and it was impossible to find the flame with the necessary accuracy to burn the rope.

Harry was willing to sustain a few burns, but he did not care to blister his wrists and still remain a captive.

That was the only result that he could foresee.

He sat for a few silent minutes. Then a different idea came to his mind.

He lighted another match and placed it on the box. He s.h.i.+fted his body as rapidly as possible, and extended his legs. He brought the rope that bound his ankles above the flame. His trousers cuffs interfered, but he managed to push them up a trifle.

This method was feasible. Harry could see what he was doing. The ropes around his ankles had thick folds. If he could sever one, he would have his feet free.

Match after match was used. There were not many in the box. Before the supply was completely exhausted, Harry strained with his ankles. The rope parted. Moving his ankles up and down, Harry freed them.

He rose and walked to the door. It was locked from the outside. He went to the window, and managed to raise it behind his back.

With considerable difficulty he let himself out, and stumbled to the ground.

He could see the dim outline of the one-story shack in which he had been kept prisoner. Now his purpose was to get away from the vicinity.

Harry had brought his coat with him. If he could only remove the rope from his aching wrists, he would be a free man.

He worked with the pockets of his coat. He had carried a knife there, but it was gone now. His flashlight was also missing. His captor must have removed those articles. But Harry could feel his wallet in the inside pocket.

HE moved carefully along a path which his feet could feel, but which his eyes could not distinguish in the darkness. Next, he reached a road, and followed it.

The night was cloudy, but there was sufficient starlight for him to find his way along. Harry was fortunate in choosing the right direction; for after half a mile he came to a highway.

He saw a wooden gate which opened between two stone walls. A tin sign had been tacked to the top rail, and projected above the wooden bar. With difficulty, Harry managed to perch himself upon the gate,which, he found, was fortunately steady.

Harry worked his wrists along the edge of the tin sign. The surface was not sharp enough to gain results, but the projecting corner, Harry noticed, was somewhat pointed.

After a long, tedious process, he managed to sever the rope that bound his wrists. He stretched his arms, and rubbed his wrists. He picked up his coat, which he had dropped on the ground.

None of his money had been taken from his wallet. The stranger had evidently gone through it, looking for cards of identification. But Harry carried none.

His licenses were in the car; and his coupe-when he had last seen it-was in Blair Windsor's large garage.

As Harry walked along the road, a car approached. It was not likely that it belonged to the man who had captured him, especially as it was coming from behind. Harry waved his hand. The driver stopped.

Hold-ups were not feared in this part of the country.

"Will you give me a lift into town?" asked Harry.

"Sure thing," replied the man in the car.

They rode along in silence. The stranger asked no questions, and Harry was too wise to inquire where he was.

After a ten-mile ride, they came to a fair-sized town. A hotel stood at the main corner.

"This is all right," said Harry. "Thanks for the ride."

He entered the hotel, and discovered that he was in Burmont, a town some twenty miles from the village of Brookdale. It was late in the evening, Harry was tired. He registered at the hotel.

The old-fas.h.i.+oned room seemed luxurious after the miserable shack in which he had spent two nights.

Harry decided not to notify any one where he was until the next day. Then he could go back to Brookdale.

Would it be wise to tell what had happened? What excuse should he make for his absence?

These were perplexing questions. Harry decided that they could best be answered after a good night's rest. The morning would be the time for action.

Then he would have an opportunity to communicate with The Shadow.

CHAPTER XXII. BURBANK GOES ON DUTY.

LAMONT CRANSTON'S valet knocked at the door of his master's room.

"Is that you, Richards?" came the voice of the millionaire.

"Yes, sir," replied the valet.

"Come in, then."

Richards entered.

"It's past noon, sir," he said. "Mr. Burbank is here."Lamont Cranston rose leisurely, and yawned.

"I'm getting to be a late sleeper, Richards," he said. "I wasn't always this way, was I?"

"No, sir. Only occasionally, sir. I don't entirely remember, sir."

Lamont Cranston smiled. Richards was most noncommittal. It was his duty to be so. He never remarked on any eccentricities which his master displayed.

This matter of Burbank, for instance.

Richards had expressed no surprise whatever at Lamont Cranston's sudden awakening of interest in the wireless station upstairs. Yesterday he had been instructed to call Burbank, the man who occasionally a.s.sisted the millionaire in his radio experiments. Now Burbank was here.

"Send him up," ordered Cranston.

Burbank, a quiet-faced man, entered the millionaire's room.

"I'm going into New York this afternoon," explained Cranston. "That's why I sent for you, Burbank.

There may be a message."

The silent man nodded.

"I've expected to hear from Vincent for several days," continued the millionaire. "I sent him certain messages-not from here, however-and he has not replied to them. I expect him to report."

Again the nod.

"There are no instructions to be sent back to him," said Cranston, "except this simple statement: Tell him to tune in at nine o'clock, as usual. That is all. But be sure to take down any word that he sends. I shall call you in the evening. Give me the information at that time."

The wireless operator went upstairs. The millionaire attired himself, and went down for breakfast. It was nearly two o'clock when he appeared in the tower room where Burbank was located.

"Nothing yet," said the wireless operator.

The millionaire did not reply. He seemed deep in thought. He began to study different radio apparatus that he had installed in this laboratory.

There were remarkable devices here. Burbank understood some of them; but the millionaire alone was familiar with all of the equipment.

AT three o'clock, Lamont Cranston left the laboratory. He went to his own room, and began to mark a schedule of activities for the afternoon.

"Jason's at four o'clock," he murmured. "Four-thirty will be time enough. Fellows never leaves his office until five-thirty. Dinner at six-at the club. Radio station at nine."

He paused, considering the items which he had arranged in column form. A vague smile appeared on his face. He took a pencil, and inserted a single line.