Now, if Lenstrom had intended to call on his old friend Creswold, why should the latter have waylaid him? If Lenstrom still carried the cash, Creswold could have acquired it more easily than resorting to murder on the highway. If Lenstrom had left the money with Brett, Creswold would have had no reason to attack him at all. Even with murder in his heart, Creswold's ignorance of Lenstrom's cash status would have caused him to wait.

This wasn't openly broached; it was simply intimated. The very inference being an injustice to Creswold, public sympathy swung heavily in his direction. The final touch was provided when witnesses stressed the existence of a "person unknown." They spoke of the cloaked marauder who had wheeled all over the map, zigzagging from Brett's to Pow-wow Boulder, down to the scene of the accident, up to Bigby's, and back across to Brett's.

Thus did The Shadow become scapegoat for the events surrounding Lenstrom's death. His operations simply added to the mystery. No one could actually say that this weird figure, more ghost than human, had played a hand in murder. Who he was, what he was, would have to be determined before making a direct accusation.

It was the coroner's business to deal in tangible facts. Somebody had certainly driven Creswold's car down the hill and smashed Lenstrom's. The culprit had undoubtedly fled after his probably accidental deed. Finding him was like finding Lenstrom's cash. Yet, to mark Creswold as the wanted man seemed preposterous.

Having just spent good money repairing his car, Creswold wouldn't go and crack it up--or would he?

By the prevailing standards of Kawagha County, Creswold wouldn't, unless he happened to be a fool, which he wasn't. So the coroner's verdict excluded Creswold, at least until some actual evidence should be found against him.

Strangers to Kawagha County were permitted to hold their own opinions. Hence, when Cranston and Margo discussed the case, they produced some curious angles. Their talk took place in the quiet lobby of the hotel.

"Creswold not only knows this territory," remarked Cranston. "he also knows the inhabitants and their reactions."

"He showed that at the inquest," agreed Margo. "He looked as though he could have answered all the questions that weren't put."

"If he'd wanted to murder Lenstrom," decided Cranston, "he couldn't have chosen a better way to do it.

Ordering his own car up to Bigby's, wrecking Lenstrom's automobile with it, starting a trail back to The Gables and reversing back to the theater--" "You forgot how he actually murdered Lenstrom," interrupted Margo. "Careless of you, Lamont."

"Hardly," said Cranston, with a smile, "since we haven't proven anything on Creswold. Let's see if we can link him with the past; I mean prior to Lenstrom's death."

Strolling over to the desk, Cranston began to chat with the clerk who had testified in Creswold's behalf.

Like everyone else at the inquest, with the exception of Creswold, the hotel clerk's questioning had been cut much shorter than he wanted. So he was glad to embellish his recent testimony.

"I'll say Creswold was good friends with Lenstrom," insisted the clerk. "Why, they were talking business all the time. Not just here in the lobby, but up in Lenstrom's room.

"Were they up there yesterday?" inquired Cranston.

"Not yesterday," replied the clerk, "but they were there the day of the big storm. That was when the call came in for Creswold."

"A call from whom?"

"The party didn't give his name, but it must have been urgent because that's why Creswold left."

"You mean when he went up to the Old Bridge Tavern?"

"That's right. Lenstrom asked later where Creswold had gone, but I didn't know at the time, because Creswold hadn't gotten back."

Margo had come over to the desk. Noting that she was about to exclaim something, Cranston gently motioned her away. Nodding to the clerk, he followed. He undertoned to Margo: "I haven't forgotten the first inquest. Old Clem testified that Zeke had phoned someone from the tavern."

"But that's the link!" Margo spoke breathlessly to keep her voice down. "He must have been calling Creswold!"

"Very probably."

"And that's why Creswold went to the tavern--"

"You mean why he was going to the tavern."

"He could have gone there," argued Margo. They were well away from the desk and she no longer needed to guard her tone. "What's more, Lenstrom must have heard that call come through, because Creswold was in his room. Don't you see how that fits, Lamont?"

"How does it fit, Margo?"

From the quiet tone of Cranston's question, Margo felt that he was baiting her with his complacence.

Nevertheless, she expressed what she felt sure must be in his mind.

"It gave Creswold a motive for murdering Lenstrom," defined Margo, "because Lenstrom was the one man who could connect Creswold with Zeke's death and the tavern fire."

"What about the hotel clerk?"

"I guess Creswold overlooked him. Or maybe he hasn't. In that case, there'll be another murder--" This time Margo interrupted herself as Cranston gave one of his slight but rare smiles.

"You're piling up the circ.u.mstantial evidence," reminded Cranston. "People always can, when they start with a false premise. We need a sounder basis to prove Creswold guilty."

"Then you really think he's guilty?"

"I said we need a sounder basis," replied Cranston, cryptically. "Until tomorrow, our policy will be to watch Creswold and learn more about his actions."

"Why only until tomorrow?"

"Because I have summoned some other observers to a.s.sist us. They will be here tomorrow. I may a.s.sign them to check on Creswold. After all, the feud between Bigby and Brett is the basis of all the local trouble. It must not be forgotten."

It didn't quite make sense to Margo. She thought that she and Lamont had fully covered the feud question. Granting that Brett had wanted the Old Bridge Tavern burned in order to financially embarra.s.s the local farmers, he couldn't have murdered Zeke, because his alibi was solid. Similarly, Bigby's need of money could not mark him as Lenstrom's killer, because he hadn't even left The Gables until after the murder on the highway. Margo personally could testify to that important fact.

So Margo dropped the subject, satisfied at least with the thought that Cranston intended to watch Creswold. Perhaps his urge for mystery was causing him to create some where it didn't exist.

Often, Margo felt that this was the one weakness of the man whose other self, The Shadow, was Mystery personified.

X.

DINNER that evening was an ordeal for Margo Lane. She would as soon have shared a table with a batch of rattlesnakes as meet the guest who foisted himself, uninvited, upon her and Lamont Cranston.

The man who Margo didn't want to come to dinner was none other than Herbert Creswold.

Still, it couldn't well be avoided. The hotel dining room was more or less a public place. When a gentleman affably sat down with two acquaintances before they had a chance to say they didn't want him, there wasn't much to do about it. Even worse, Margo felt that Cranston was very glad to have Creswold dine with them. It certainly made it easier to watch Creswold. Cranston was a stickler for efficiency.

It happened though that Lamont was master of the poker-face. Margo wasn't. She found it very difficult being nice to Creswold. His shrewd eye made her restless. At proper distance, Creswold looked benign with his easy, frequent smile. But at close range, you could see that expression tighten and practically merge with his sharp, suspicious gaze.

Fortunately Creswold confined his probe chiefly to Cranston. It must have satisfied him, for with dinner over, the grizzled man came bluntly to his subject.

"I was sorry about Lenstrom," declared Creswold. "Sorry for everybody's sake, particularly his own.

Lenstrom had a real business opportunity here in Lamira."

"So Brett was telling him," remarked Cranston. "He wanted Lenstrom to lend money to the farmers."

That smile of Creswold's curled a bit sardonically. "Brett would have," declared Creswold. "He wanted to win them away from Bigby. What did Brett say after Lenstrom left?"

Those sharp eyes were on Cranston's calm face, as though watching for a flicker of betrayal. None came. If Creswold thought of Cranston in terms of a mysterious cloaked prowler, he was getting no encouragement.

"We forgot Lenstrom," stated Cranston. "Brett was in his study. Later, he ran upstairs while the rest of us were under tables in the living room. The shot-guns began blasting right after Lenstrom left."

Creswold nodded as though he had forgotten the testimony of Brett's friends. Then: "I said that Lenstrom had an opportunity in Lamira," repeated Creswold. "I did not refer to the county at large. I wanted Lenstrom to invest in projects like my theater and some of the local stores. The proposition is still open."

That it was open for Cranston was obvious from Creswold's fixed stare. More than before, Margo felt that the rattlesnake a.n.a.logy fitted Creswold. He'd made this offer to Lenstrom before death struck. Now he was doing the same to Cranston. That seemed like a first-cla.s.s rattle, though Cranston didn't take it that way.

"What about Brett's plan?" inquired Cranston, coolly. "It struck me that dealing with the farmers on a cash basis was a very sound idea."

Creswold turned his sharp eyes upon Margo and inquired: "What do you think, Miss Lane?"

"What do I think?" Margo felt confused. "Why--why, about what?"

"About how far Brett would get with the farmers," replied Creswold, with his tight smile. "You were at Bigby's house and you saw him all evening, didn't you?"

Margo nodded emphatically. Creswold showed a definite annoyance, both in smile and gaze. Then, as though his question had been a mere preliminary and not an attempt to discredit another man's alibi, Creswold added the query: "Weren't the farmers friendly toward Bigby?"

"Very definitely," answered Margo, "and unanimously."

Turning back to Cranston, Creswold spread his hands as though that settled it.

"Don't you see how foolish Brett was?" inquired Creswold. "He can't buy up those farms and quarries, personally or by proxy. They'll only accept money from a friend."

"If you mean Bigby," put Cranston, "where would he get the money?"

It was a direct invitation for Creswold to charge Bigby with the theft of Lenstrom's fund. As Cranston expected, Creswold side-stepped it cleanly.

"I don't mean Bigby," declared Creswold, smoothly. "I mean myself."

Cranston's eyebrows lifted. "You mean the farmers regard you as a friend?"

"I'm everybody's friend," announced Creswold. "What's more, I have money. But if I use it to help the farmers, I'll be short on my own projects. That's why I need a partner."

There wasn't a change in Cranston's expression. It was impossible to tell whether he was thinking yes or no. Fl.u.s.tered for the first time, Creswold reached into his pocket. He brought out a little book and thumbed through its pages.

"I've already made some contacts, declared Creswold, "beginning with the farmers who will be a.s.sessed the heaviest on the recent fire losses. They'll be trying to raise money in that order. If I helped them"--pocketing the little book, Creswold drew out a fat envelope and toyed with it--"would it convince you, Mr. Cranston?"

"It would."

There was something so positive in Cranston's tone that Margo realized it carried reservation. It meant that he would be convinced, but he a didn't specify of what. Moreover, from Cranston's gaze, Margo felt that he was sharing her question as to the contents of Creswold's envelope. It could have easily been stuffed with wads of paper instead of money.

Or if the envelope did contain cash--and this thought was more potent--it was odd that Creswold should have so much, immediately after the disappearance of Lenstrom's funds. Somehow Creswold's keen stare was requesting a challenge on that very score. His nerve could match his shrewdness. But Cranston remained unruffled. His own gaze simply indicated that his statement stood. Whereupon Creswold pocketed the envelope, rose from the table and shook hands cordially.

"I'll see you tomorrow," promised Creswold. "By then, we can talk of what I have done; not of what I intend to do."

Hardly had Creswold left the dining room before Cranston gave a quick signal to Margo. Together, they went into the lobby. Cranston gestured for Margo to watch the door while he approached the desk. A few minutes talk with the clerk was all that Cranston required; then he was whisking Margo out to the parking lot where they kept their car.

"I'm still interested in Creswold's intentions," stated Cranston as he pulled from the lot. "I think I gathered them from the hotel clerk."

"You mean Creswold told him where he was going?" asked Margo, incredulously. "Why would he do that?"

"He didn't," replied Cranston. "But the clerk knows who owns the biggest farm in the county and is therefore the hardest hit on the a.s.sessment question. Our man is Martin Tramrick, of Fairfield Farm."

Margo nodded at the latter name. She'd heard of Fairfield Farm. It stood on a road several miles beyond the hill that housed the respective mansions of Claude Bigby and Preston Brett.

"Tramrick is already counting on his friends," continued Cranston as they reached the bridge that crossed the Kawagha. "That means the other farmers--and Bigby."

Something in Cranston's delayed tone caused Margo to stare up the slope. They were swinging past Bigby's driveway and along the road that curved around the hill. Margo gained only brief, vague views of The Gables. The ancient homestead was almost entirely dark. "Bigby is probably out raising funds," remarked Cranston, "unless promises happen to be all that he can get. Take a look at Future Haven and tell me how it looks."

"It looks like Coney Island," returned Margo. A glittering array of lights came into sight upon the slope.

"If Brett isn't home, he's certainly giving the impression that he is."

They wheeled around the hill and covered the long stretch past Brett's driveway. It was Cranston who made the next observation. He pointed off through the windshield. In the cloud-flecked moonlight, Margo saw a distant batch of farm-buildings on the fringe of a wooded crest.

"Fairfield Farm," identified Cranston, "and Tramrick can expect one visitor, at least."

The car unleashed itself as Cranston spoke. It wasn't because he was referring to himself as the caller who was due at Fairfield Farm. There was another reason why Cranston wanted to clip the remaining miles to that distant goal. On a road that crossed an intervening brow, two tiny headlights were climbing toward Fairfield Farm. They were moving so rapidly that all Cranston's speed would not be enough to overtake them.

Margo Lane could picture only one man as the driver of that fast moving car. That man was everybody's friend, Herbert Creswold.

XI.

THE road forked a quarter mile before reaching Fairfield Farm. It was at that point that Cranston began operations. The car ahead had swung to the left and its taillights were suddenly blending into one. That puzzled Margo until she realized that the car must be turning into the ample yard of Fairfield Farm.

By then, Cranston had taken the fork to the right. Again, understanding dawned on Margo.

Most conspicuous of the farm buildings was a huge barn. It was about midway between the two arms of the divided road. Since the other car would probably pull up to the barn and stop there, Cranston had decided to approach from another direction.

It was a neat trick. By spurting along the road to the right, Cranston was practically under cover. Within a minute, he would be in back of the barn, provided that he could drive in from that quarter.

Unfortunately there wasn't any opening in the stone wall that fringed this road, but apparently Cranston had made allowance for the fact.

Stopping abruptly at the nearest point to the looming barn, Cranston pushed open the door on his side.

He turned to Margo: "Get turned around and drive back to the fork. Stay on this road with the lights turned off. I'll join you there."

Cranston was getting out as he spoke. He was taking black garments from the back of the seat behind him. By the time Margo was at the wheel, ready to obey instructions, Cranston had become a blot in the moonlight. He was transformed to a thing that seemed a cloud of smoky blackness; a fog that trickled up across the stone wall and evaporated.

It was The Shadow, not Cranston, who started a long, swift glide toward the great hulking barn. The looming building chopped off the moonlight and provided a long stretch of gloom. Through it, The Shadow traveled as invisibly as a waft of night wind. Everything was strangely silent at that moment, so silent that something spectacular seemed in the air. Margo had coasted over the ridge so there was no sound of a motor from that direction. Nevertheless, The Shadow was listening for such a sound. But his attention was focussed ahead of him; not in back.

All lack of noise indicated that the car ahead had halted in the farmyard, near the house, on the other side of the big barn. By the time The Shadow had taken a dozen long strides, he heard the token that he expected. A faint thump, m.u.f.fled by the intervening barn, indicated that someone had stepped from a car and slammed its door.

An instant later, bedlam broke.

It began with the ba.s.so barking of huge dogs. They sounded from beyond the barn, telling that they had scented a stranger they didn't like. The barks turned to a baying sound, meaning that huge hounds were on the loose. Men's voices shouted in great excitement. At that moment, The Shadow, detouring slightly to keep to sheltering darkness, gained a glimpse of the car beyond the barn.