Shadow, the Mysterious Detective/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
SHADOW—WHO WAS HE?
Mat Morris was grimly in earnest in his determination to find the missing Helen.
He had no clew to follow, no starting-point from which to begin his search, but he would not permit himself to think about it in this light, for fear he would become discouraged.
Helen was alive—was somewhere—could be found—and must be found!
First of all, he paid a visit to police head-quarters, and described the man who had been seen with Helen, as the boy had described him.
From one detective to another he went, giving the description, and inquiring if any could say who tallied in appearance with it.
Among the others he came to me, but, like the others, I could not even guess who the person might be, so meager was the description.
I asked him if he intended turning detective himself.
"I do," he firmly said; "and I shall never give up until I have found her, and unearthed the rascal who has done this."
"Who is this 'her' you speak of?"
"A girl whom I love dearer than my life itself!" was the earnest reply—not given in a mawkish and sentimental tone, but in a manly way that won for the speaker my good opinion.
"Perhaps I can help you," I said. "Tell me your story."
He did so, but so little did it contain that I could see no advice to give him, and told him so frankly.
"I like you for your frankness," said Mat; "but say no more or you may discourage me."
I asked him his name, and when he had told me what it was, I found that I had known his father.
"I hope you may be successful—I sincerely hope so," I told him, as we shook hands at parting.
Mat Morris went his road and I went mine, and in the busy details of my life soon forgot him.
One afternoon, a lot of us detectives were grouped together, discussing an offer of a reward of one thousand dollars for the discovery of some stolen bonds and the person who had made free with them.
The known facts of the case were in our possession, and when I sat in my room that evening, recalling them one by one, it struck me that a certain criminal might have had a hand in the affair, for the method of making the robbery was in his style.
Singular as it may seem, nearly every professional thief has a method of working up his "jobs," and a detective very frequently can positively say: "Such and such a person had a hand in that affair," merely because they know the style and method of the work.
I put on my coat and hat and went out, my footsteps turned in the direction of this person's haunts.
As I drew near to a saloon which he was accustomed to frequent, I caught sight of the very individual, and followed him.
He passed the saloon, and going on, turned the next corner.
I hastened forward, was about to turn the corner, when a slight thing brought me suddenly to a halt.
It was nothing more nor less than a simple shadow, cast on the walk by a gaslight. It was the shadow of a slender figure, in male attire, a cap on the head, one hand raised, while the index finger was being shaken after somebody in the distance.
Simple as the circumstance was it impressed me, and I stood still and waited.
My eyes wandered from the shadow for an instant, and when my eyes sought the spot where it had been, it was gone.
I sprang to the corner.
The criminal whom I had been following was out of sight, and the person who had cast that shadow was nowhere visible.
And yet I had heard no footsteps, and the time anyhow was too brief for the person to have gone more than a dozen feet.
I was deeply puzzled.
Soon after I turned my steps toward home, for I was balked for the present, whatever else might be the case. I remember just before leaving the spot that I muttered, rather loud, perhaps:
"Where did that shadow disappear to so suddenly?"
The next day these words were recalled to my mind when a note was handed to me, and I had opened it.
"The bonds are hidden under the dock at the foot of —— street. The person who stole them will recover them to-night. Capture him. Claim the reward; keep half, and be ready to give the other half at an instant's demand to
"Let the word answer as a countersign."
This note puzzled me not a little, and I hardly knew what to do in regard to it; for I did not wish to be made a fool of, as well as the laughing-stock of the other detectives.
I finally determined to tack my faith to this unknown person who signed "Shadow," and that night took a couple of men to the spot designated, and captured the bond thief after he had taken the bonds from their hiding-place.
I got the reward, and kept five hundred myself, reserving the other five hundred until it should be demanded of me, when, where, or how, I had not the slightest idea.
Several weeks later, after the midnight hour, I was suddenly brought to a halt as I drew near my house, for across the walk was cast that shadow.
I knew it must be the same one, and belonging to the same person, for the hand was raised, and the index finger shaking.
Determined that this shadow should not disappear so suddenly and mysteriously again, I kept my eyes on it as I hastily sprang forward.
The shadow moved, and its owner suddenly stood before me—a lithe figure, in male attire, with a large-peaked cap.
I glanced keenly at the face.
It was a boyish-looking face, with eyes very deep-set, it seemed to me, and a face, besides, that lacked expression.
"Shadow!" was uttered by a low voice, evidently disguised, and then a hand was extended—for the money, as I well knew.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"Shadow!" was the single word of reply.
"What do you want?"
"You know perfectly well. If you are villainous enough to keep it all, why, do so!" and he would have glided away.
"Hold on! Here is your share. And now, who are you?" and I bent closer to the mysterious being, and then discovered that I did not see a real face, but a closely-fitting mask, which defied all but the closest scrutiny.
"I am Shadow."
"A detective?"
"Yes. Now go—leave me alone—cease your questioning. And, as you value my friendship (which may be worth much to you) never speak to me again, but act simply as I shall write. You have compelled me to break an oath—be satisfied and go; and never cause me to break a new oath, which I now again make, or I swear solemnly that you shall regret it."
Thus spoke Shadow, and then he went swiftly away, with the most noiseless steps of any human being I ever saw.
I took a few steps in the same direction, but I paused when he turned and shook that index finger at me in that peculiar way.
He was a deep mystery to me.
"Who was he?"
Disguised as a sailor just arrived in port, I shadowed a man into a low dive some nights later.
Two professional burglars, well known to me, passed near me as I crossed the room.
"Could that little chap have overheard anything we said?" one rather anxiously asked of the other.
"No," was the careless reply. "I've seen him before, and know that he's deaf and dumb. If it hadn't been for that, I'd a told you of his being near us."
Thus much I heard, and then distance swallowed up the sound of their voices.
I glanced around in quest of the little chap alluded to, and my eyes lighted on—Shadow!
Was he playing deaf and dumb?
I got near him after a while, and managed to whisper into his ear:
"I know you now. I detected you from the way you carry your head—you are Mat Morris."
Shadow's hand was resting on the table. Without even glancing up to see if I was looking, his index finger began forming letters on the table—letters, of course, that were invisible.
My eyes followed the finger carefully, and I read the words:
"Fool! Your folly may cost us both our lives. I am Shadow—nothing else. Do not seek to penetrate my disguise. Go."
I turned away rebuked.
If he wished to conceal his identity, it certainly was none of my business.
As I was turning about, a genuine tar—a regular son of Neptune—staggered against me. He was half seas over, and I tried to avoid him.
But he grasped me by the shoulder, gave me a shake, and—
"Come along and have some grog, you son of a sea-cook!"
I tried to get away from him, and to keep up my assumed character was foolish enough to attempt using a sailor-like phrase.
No sooner had the tar heard my words than he bellowed out:
"Hurroo—hurroo! Shiver my timbers if ye ever smelt salt water! You're no tar—smash my headlights if ye are! Can't play that game on me," following his speech with a hearty guffaw.
He raised his hand to slap me on the shoulder, and his fingers caught in and dragged off the bushy whiskers I had put on for a disguise.
All eyes had been drawn to us by the drunken sailor's words, and when my face was seen there was a start of alarm on all sides.
Some one recognized me.
"A detective—a detective!"
And then a hoarse and angry murmur was heard on every side, and I was slowly hemmed in by a crowd of scowling-faced villains.