Читать книгу The Shadow Crook - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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Inspector Mason pushed through the swing doors into the main hall, closely followed by Collins and looked around him. Immediately he noticed there was a stranger in the hall. Lounging against the Inquiry Desk was a tall, lanky young man; keen faced, his most noticeable feature being a crop of unruly black hair, worn somewhat long. At the Inspector's entrance he looked up and moved forward, briskly, to meet him.

"Raid on Police Headquarters, Mason." He spoke in a deep voice, carrying a hint of laughter. "Clarke tells me headquarters have been shrouded in a mysterious darkness for the last quarter of an hour. Anything wrong?"

"Darkness, certainly," Mason spoke thoughtfully. "But so far I have failed to discover anything but a fuse blown out. Alec Branston of the Morning Mirror staff, if I'm not mistaken."

"On night rounds," Branston nodded affirmatively. "You've got a good memory, Inspector. By the way, there's congratulations due on a well-earned step, I believe."

"Thanks. Anything interesting happened to-night?"

"I should ask you that, but I suppose you're too big a swell in the police department now. I gathered at Darlinghurst that one of their men claimed to have disturbed the Shadow Crook at work, to-night."

"The Shadow Crook." Mason spoke quickly. "Where and at what time?"

"Early in the evening, just after dusk." The reporter looked inquisitively at the Inspector. "I believe at one of the flats in Walcott-road."

For a full minute the Inspector remained silent. If the Shadow Crook had been operating at Darlinghurst early in the evening it was improbable he would be hanging about police headquarters a couple of hours later. Yet there had been plenty of time for him to cover the intervening distance.

"Who is the Shadow Crook?" The detective turned to the newspaper-man. "Remember, Branston, I've been in the country for the past two years. Down here you seem full of him. Grime mentioned him to-night. The Superintendent had a word to say about him yesterday. What's the strength of it all? Seems to be a hobby to place everything otherwise unexplainable, on the shoulders of the Shadow Crook. What's your theory?"

"Answer your own questions correctly and I'll have a fine front-page story in the Mirror to-morrow morning," Branston laughed. "All that's known is that the Shadow Crook appears to have a marvellous ability to get out of tight corners. He appears at unexpected places and just when it seems he's corner he melts into thin air. There's a dozen mysterious burglaries placed to his credit and everyone has unique features. There's half a hundred or so ordinary affairs, so far unexplained, accredited to him, I believe, without the slightest evidence. I'm prepared to accept the dozen. The others well, any of them could have been committed by well-known Sydney hooks."

"Been seen? Of course. You mentioned the Darlinghurst man saw him to-night. Has he booked a description?"

"Over medium height. Thin, hollow-chested. Wears a brown overcoat, collar turned up, grey hat, much stained, pulled well down over his eyes." Branston was reading from a pad he had taken from his pocket. "Moves absolutely silent—like a shadow. Probably wore rubber heels and soles."

"Humph!" The Inspector swung round to face Collins, standing just behind him. "How's that?"

"Fits him to a 't'," exclaimed the constable.

"He's been here?" The journalist produced a pencil. "What's happened?"

"That's what I'd like to know. By the way, Branston, anyone beside the Darlinghurst man seen him?"

"Two or three people who have been robbed are said to have seen him." Branston was writing rapidly. "But they weren't, able to provide a description. All they could say was that a shadow slipped past them. No sound, no substance, according to their account—nothing tangible. That's how he got the name of the Shadow Crook."

"Then it wasn't the sudden darkness acting on fevered imaginations." Mason, was musing to himself. "But I didn't think there was a crook in Sydney with the cheek to walk into police headquarters and fuse the electric light."

"Fuse the electric light!" The newspaper-man's pencil flew over the paper.

"Here, hold hard!" Mason made a grab at the wad of paper the journalist held. "That's' not for publication, you know."

"Stalled!" Branston grinned cheer fully, evading the clutching hand. "What's the good of being mean, over the-best story I'm likely to get to-night. Got into police headquarters did he, and fused the lights. Well, what happened? Gold plate safe?"

"We must erect a wing at Long Bay for inquisitive journalists!" Mason laughed. "Yes, the gold plate's quite safe. Use the tale, if you like, Branston, but don't quote it as official. What the Shadow Crook was after I can't understand. Why, it wouldn't pay even a newspaper-man to try and rob headquarters at this time, of the night. Say, Clarke, have you seen Anderson, through all this commotion?"

"No, Inspector."

"I'll have another look in his office. If he's not there this time, I'm off. You needn't wait, Swartz. Fun's all over for the night. Good-night, Branston. Hope to be able to give you a better story one day."

He turned down the corridor in the direction of the Fingerprints Department. Anderson's door was shut and locked, and under the edge of the door still showed the thin line of light. It seemed strange that so careful a man as Sergeant Anderson should be away from his room for any considerable length of time and leave the lights burning. Mason placed his ear against the panel of the door and listened intently. For some moments he could hear nothing. Then he thought he heard the sounds of muffled scrapings within the room: He knocked sharply, but no answer came, only the dulled shuffling—now more plainly. He swung, round and went to the Inquiry Desk.

"Where are the keys of the doors, Clarke?"

"On the board, in the main office, Inspector. Anything wrong?"

"Don't know. Anderson's room is locked, but the light is still burning. I think I can hear someone inside but when I knocked I got no answer."

The constable took a key from his desk and disappeared into the main office. In a few seconds he returned, dangling a bunch of keys on his fingers, and walked down to Sergeant Anderson's office, followed by the Inspector, Branston and Const. Collins.

All the lights were on in the rather large office. The four men stood just within the door, searching the room with their eyes. It appeared empty—as if the Sergeant had left it to obtain something he required from another part of the building. On the table stood one of the file drawers. Other drawers were pulled out half-way from the steep cabinets. By the file on the table was a blotting-pad and on it lay a few record cards, across which lay a gold-mounted fountain pen.

Constable Clarke walked slowly into the room, around the large table, and halted with an exclamation of dismay. The others crowded after him, to look down on a man, bound and gagged, lying half under the table. It was Sergeant Anderson. Mason dropped to his knees and sawed at the bonds with his pocket knife. Branston stood watching for some moments, then wandered carelessly around the room, searching the files with eager eyes. At length, he stopped and bent over a half-opened drawer.

"Someone's been at this cabinet, Mason," he called.

"What's that?" The Inspector left the two constables to complete the releasing of Anderson from his bonds and came to the journalist's side. For a moment he carefully examined the records Branston indicated. "These seem complete. What makes you think they have been tampered with?"

"Anderson's been working on a line of drawers on the other side of the room, and there's no connection between them and these records. Ask him." The newspaper-man spoke curtly.

Mason looked round. The sergeant was struggling to his feet dazed and groggy. One of the constables was drawing towards him a swivel-chair. The Inspector waited until the man was seated before he spoke.

"Been working over here, Anderson?" The men swung the chair round so that the sergeant faced the isle of cabinets against which Mason stood.

"No." Anderson struggled to his feet and, supported by the two constables, staggered across to where the officer and Branston stood. "I've been working BX3, W11, and ZE2—the particulars you asked me to get out for you to-night. These filers are PUR4. I haven't touched them to-day."

"Sit down, man." The Inspector dragged a chair forward. "Now. What happened? I've been to and from your room half a dozen times during the past hour and never caught sight of you've not been lying under the table all that time?"

"So far as I know I've only been here a few minutes." The man answered in a weak voice. "Your particulars wanted some searching out and I've had to run about the building collecting details."

"How long since you entered this room for the last time—when you got that smack on the head?" Mason looked at his watch. "It's ten-five now."

"Then I've lain there about a quarter of an hour." Anderson, a slight, grey-haired man with a thin clever face, spoke painfully. "I was in the Commissioner's office, when the quarter-to-ten chimed. I came down here and found I wanted some record cards and went to the store down stairs for them. As I went to re-enter this room, something struck me on the head, and I went out."

"Sandbag." The Inspector was exploring the sergeant's head with gentle fingers. "You've a whale of a bruise here. We'll get the surgeon in a minute and have you doctored up. First, tell me what happened after you were knocked down."

"Don't know. I was knocked out." Anderson spoke after a considerable pause. "I have a hazy notion there was someone in the room, moving about, but there wasn't a sound. It was just like a dream-shadow fitting between my closed eyelids and the lights, every now and then."

"The Shadow Crook!" came from Branston. The newspaper-man spoke the word under his breath but Mason heard and turned a frowning face towards him.

"Then I heard someone at the door and tried to cry. out." Anderson continued: "I tried to cry out but I was gagged. I shuffled my bound feet on the floor and tried to drum with my heels, but I was tied too tight for that. Whoever was at the door went away, and I thought I was to lie here all night, unless Clarke discovered my lights burning and opened the door to switch them off. I tell you I was relieved when I heard the key in the lock."

The inspector looked from the sergeant to the disordered files-drawer. For some minutes he was silent, frowning thoughtfully.

"Let's get this straight," he spoke suddenly. "Do you remember the lights going out? Where were you then?"

"Here!" Anderson answered promptly. "I had a candle in the room and found it. I had just commenced to work by its light when I found I wanted the cards and went downstairs for them.

"Leaving your door unlocked?"

"Yes. I knew I would only be away a couple of minutes."

"You came back before the lights were on again and someone slouched you on the head." Mason spoke care fully. "Was he inside or outside the room?"

"Inside the room. I would have seen him if he had been in the corridor, for I took the lighted candle with me. So far as I understand, he must have stood behind the door. When he hit me I pitched forward into the room."

"Then he was waiting for you." The Inspector paused for some seconds before continuing his examination. "Seems he managed to get about very easily and quietly."

"Who?" asked the newspaper-man, with a slight smile.

"The Shadow Crook," Mason spoke gruffly. "We know, already, he paid us a surprise visit to-night, but we couldn't understand his reasons."

"The files?" Branston pointed to the filing-drawer he and the Inspector had examined.

"Yet they seem complete, so far as I can tell." Mason showed he was puzzled. He turned to the sergeant. "Anderson, can you manage to run through the files in this drawer and make a rough check of them? You should he able to tell if anything is missing. By the way, Clarke, who is at the Inquiry Desk?"

The constable sprang to the door with a short exclamation. He tugged at the handle, but it was locked. In a moment the Inspector joined him.

"Who has the key, Clarke? What did you do with it when you opened the door?"

"Left it in the lock, Inspector."

For a brief second, the Inspector looked at the man, incredulously. Then, he turned and walked to the table, perching himself on the edge.

"Caged!" Branston dropped into a chair, shouting with laughter. "Say, Mason, what's happened to the Police Department?"

For a moment it looked as if Mason would lose his temper. He glared savagely at his companions, then the humour of the situation appealed to him and he joined in the laughter.

"Police Department captured by the Shadow Crook!" Branston had his pad of copy-paper on his knee, writing rapidly. "Strewth! What a story. Say, Mason, who's in the Long Room?"

"Andrews, Swartz, Smith and possibly Brown." Collins answered the question.

The reporter tucked his notes in his pocket and went to the telephone. He had just obtained the department switch-operator when Mason took the receiver from his hand.

"Wait a moment, Branston." The Inspector turned to Anderson. "Where's your key, Sergeant?"

"Gone!" The officer was feeling through his pockets.

"Of course. How else could he have locked you in your room? Well, I suppose we'll have to call one of the men. We'll be the laughing stock of the department."

"What if he's taken Clarke's key out of the lock?" asked the news paper man, suddenly.

"Oh hell," Mason hesitated, with the receiver half-way to his ear.

"All right, Inspector." Collins was probing the lock with his penknife. "The key's still there."

"Good!" Mason turned to the telephone and briefly ordered one of the men in the Long Room to come and unlock the door. "What a hell of a mess!"

"But what's the big idea?" Branston asked the question. "Why did he want to get us all in here and turn the key on us?"

"That part's easy." Mason had returned to his seat on the edge of the table. "So far as I can reconstruct the Shadow Crook's movements they run something like this."

The Inspector paused for a moment and then continued:

"I saw a man—it may have been the Shadow Crook—standing near the front entrance, an hour or more ago. I spoke to him, but he did not answer. He had a bad attack of coughing, perhaps that was to prevent me hearing his voice. I went to the desk and got a glass of water. When I returned he had disappeared. Now, I take it that he was standing there to check out our fellows. When I spoke to him only the night staff and myself were in the building and he was about ready to act. As I said, he disappeared while I was getting the glass of water. I believe, now, he bolted up Phillip-street into the drive-way to the yard. He crept up the steps beside the Long Room and fixed the glove at the head of the steps so that by touching the switch he could fuse the lights in the building. Collins, Andrews and Smith saw him just as he had set his trick. When the building was in darkness he ran up the passage to the swing doors. When Swartz came up the passage he must have Been in hiding and followed him through the doors, turning down to Anderson's room. He found the room empty and waited. When Anderson returned he wanged him over the head."

"What for?" Branston asked the question.

"Don't know." Again Mason frowned.

"What happened after he had locked Anderson in here?" The newspaper-man was curious.

"There I have to guess wildly." Mason smiled grimly. "I should say he went down, the stairs and waited. In some way he knew I was on the watch for Anderson—possibly, I said something to Grime in his hearing that indicated that. He knew that sooner or later I would notice the lights in the room and have the door opened. That would mean the hall would be unattended for some minutes and so give him an opportunity, to walk out of the front door as if he had been on legitimate business in the building."

"But why lock us in this room?" objected the journalist.

"Dare-devil work." Mason spoke shortly for he felt this part of his hypothesis was weak. He was relieved from further questioning by the sounds of footsteps in the corridor. The key in the lock was turned, noisily, and the door thrust open. In the doorway stood the men from the Long Room, grinning broadly.

"Oh, what a story!" Branston laughed, gleefully. "Detective-Inspector Mason and his merry men, including the Mirror's special representative, imprisoned by the Shadow Crook! By the life of—"

"A story that will never be written, young man." The Inspector turned suddenly on the journalist. "Understand, not a word of this gets into print."

"Hell!" The newspaper-man glanced quickly at the detective, to meet, the officer's determined eyes. With a shrug of his shoulders he gave way, gracefully.

"All right, Mason. I suppose if I keep the high-lights out of the Shadow Crook's visit to head quarters that can be used? Of course, you'll be responsible for your men. You know, if a word of this story gets into another paper I'm due for a brew of trouble."

"That goes." Mason held out his hand. "You can use what you wish of the Shadow Crook's visit to headquarters and make it as sensational as you like—so long as you don't print the truth." With a grim smile he turned to where Anderson stood at the files. "Found out if anything's missing, Sergeant?"

"Nothing missing, so far as I can tell, at present." The sergeant walked slowly over and joined the group at the table. "Only one of the records appears to have been tampered with and I can't tell how. There's nothing taken from the record."

"Which one are you referring to?" asked Mason.

"The Stacey Carr records. The cards and the papers are all out of order, most of them scattered about on the top of the other files."

"Old Man Carr's fingerprints!" Branston sprang to his feet his face blazing with excitement, "What do you mean, man? Haven't you heard? Old Man Carr died in Bathurst Gaol Infirmary this afternoon."