The Third Skull

CHAPTER XII. THE ROOM OF SKULLS

LISTED first among the names of old Hildrew Parchell’s associates had been Channing Tobold. Crooks had raided the pawnbroker’s shop; they had failed to get the wealth they sought. The silver skull ring had been a blind.

The Shadow had anticipated the criminal move; but he had been too late to stop the evil thrust. Chance had tricked The Shadow. Channing Tobold was dead. But tonight, The Shadow was playing for better luck.

Knowing that wealth was still missing, The Shadow had picked the name of Hildrew Parchell’s second associate. That was Professor Tyson Morth, the well-known anthropologist. The Shadow had sought for information concerning Professor Morth; he had learned that the man was out of town. Morth’s house was closed.

Then Mann had seen the item in the Philadelphia newspaper. Detail work was Mann’s business. He went through files of out-of-town journals every day. Mann had passed the word to The Shadow, who, in turn, saw every reason to believe that Morth would be home tonight.

With ten o’clock approaching, The Shadow was riding toward a destination. He was traveling as Lamont Cranston; he was lounging in the rear seat of a big limousine. The car was rolling southward on Seventh Avenue, toward the outskirts of Greenwich Village.

There was a radio in the limousine. The Shadow turned the knob. The zing-zing of a wireless sounded.

Some amateur sender, using short wave. But the code was not the International. Dots and dashes formed an odd jargon as The Shadow listened.

A soft laugh echoed as the limousine rolled onward. Riding luxuriously through Manhattan, The Shadow was receiving a last-minute report from Burbank. The contact man was using a short-wave set from his hidden post.

The message was in special code devised by The Shadow. A tricky combination that included key words which only The Shadow could recognize when he had translated them.

Burbank was reporting calls from various agents; he was mentioning briefly the fact that they had lost sight of the men whom they were set to watch.

Again, The Shadow laughed. His agents had encountered bad breaks; yet he was unperturbed. Some one among the watched men might be the big-shot. It was impossible to determine which one. But while others were innocently on the move, the supercrook was apparently designing evil.

The Shadow was ready for trouble; its approach pleased him. Particularly when Burbank’s final report buzzed through, telling that Cliff and Hawkeye had uncovered Flick Sherrad’s hideout, only to find it empty. That meant that minions, like their evil chief, would be on the job.

THE limousine was in the edge of the Village, weaving its way through a curious network of twisted streets. Stanley, the chauffeur, was familiar with this district. The car rolled through a thoroughfare no wider than an alley. It turned into a cross street.

Radio turned off, The Shadow was peering from the window of the big car. He noticed an isolated house, an old-fashioned building that remained a homestead among other edifices that had been transformed into apartments.

Across the street, he observed an Italian fruit vendor standing by a heavy pushcart. The fellow was mopping his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief.

“Stop here, Stanley,” spoke The Shadow, through the speaking tube. His voice was the quiet tone of Cranston. “Go over and ask that fruit seller how much he wants for a whole bunch of bananas.”

The chauffeur pulled up at the curb. Wondering he alighted. Stanley was used to his employer’s quirks, but the threat of buying out a fruit peddler’s entire supply of bananas was something new. Nevertheless, Stanley obeyed the order.

The Shadow watched him talk with the Italian, who gesticulated with much gusto. Stanley returned.

“Three dollars and twenty-five cents,” reported the chauffeur, through the speaking tube. “Do you wish to purchase the bananas, Mr. Cranston?”

“No,” returned The Shadow, quietly. “Tell the man he is asking seventy-five cents too much. Then return here, Stanley. We shall proceed.”

The chauffeur went back to the fruit wagon. The Italian became indignant when he heard the news.

Stanley backed away from the gesticulating fellow. Anxious to avoid an argument, the chauffeur scrambled aboard the big car.

“Drive around the block, Stanley,” commented The Shadow, dryly.

The chauffeur drove off, gladly. The Shadow, looking back, emitted a soft laugh, as he saw the fruit peddler standing in the center of the street, clenching his fists and glaring.

The fellow had played his part well. This was no ordinary fruit peddler. The Italian’s name was Pietro; he was an agent of The Shadow.

Pietro had been posted there by Burbank. The Italian had been pushing his cart along this Street exclusively, always watching that old, sequestered house. For that building was the closed home of Professor Tyson Morth.

Stanley was not an agent of The Shadow. He was merely Lamont Cranston’s chauffeur. Yet, unwittingly, Stanley had passed a message to Pietro. The argument over the price of bananas was actually a cue to the Italian.

Pietro’s statement of three dollars and a quarter meant that no one had entered the old house. Word coming back that the sum was too much meant that Pietro was to remain on duty in case of emergency only, for The Shadow had taken charge.

THE limousine reached the back street. It was rolling past the rear of Morth’s darkened house. Again, The Shadow used Cranston’s voice to request a stop. He gave Stanley another order.

“Step over to that tea room,” said The Shadow. “Ask the door man how much they charge for their regular dinner. If the price is no more than a dollar, find out how long they remain open.”

Again, Stanley alighted. Approaching the obscure basement entrance to the little tea room, the chauffeur encountered a huge African attired in gorgeous uniform. The fellow bowed politely as he saw Stanley.

“How much is the dinner here?” questioned the chauffeur.

“One dollah, sah,” returned the African.

“And how late do you stay open?” added Stanley.

“Until midnight, sah,” was the reply.

Stanley returned to the car. He gave the information through the speaking tube. Again, the chauffeur had unwittingly formed contact for The Shadow. The big African was another worker whom The Shadow used on occasion. His name was Jericho, and he made a specialty of hiring out as a doorman.

Jericho had practically wished himself into the present job. Following Burbank’s orders, he had come to this tea room with his splendid uniform and had offered to work in return for meals alone. The proprietor had naturally given him the job. As doorman at the tea room, Jericho had been watching the rear of Morth’s residence.

Jericho’s statement of one dollar was the cue that nothing had occurred here. Had any one entered the rear of Morth’s house, Jericho would have stated that dinners cost one dollar and a quarter. Then Stanley would have come back to the limousine immediately. As it was, Stanley had put another question regarding closing time. That told Jericho that he was henceforth on emergency duty only. The Shadow himself would be in charge.

When Stanley used the speaking tube to report his conversation to Lamont Cranston, he heard his master reply in a quiet tone:

“Drive to the Cobalt Club, Stanley.” The chauffeur pressed the starter. As he did, the rear door of the limousine opened noiselessly. A silent, shrouded figure stepped to the curb and moved swiftly toward the wall of Morth’s house. The limousine pulled away without The Shadow.

Driving toward the Cobalt Club, Stanley was puzzled. His boss had been more eccentric than usual. First he had changed his mind about buying a bunch of bananas; then he had passed up a dollar dinner. Now he was riding back to the Cobalt Club.

So thought Stanley. The chauffeur did not know that the rear of the car was empty. That would bewilder him further when he reached his destination.

MEANWHILE, The Shadow was testing a rear door that opened into Morth’s house. It was locked and bolted from the inside. The barrier, too, was formidable. The Shadow probed the lock, which was located in a large keyhole. He picked it after a brief process.

The bolt remained as a problem. The Shadow settled it. His gloved fingers pushed an instrument through the keyhole. This was a coiling wire with a pliable loop on the ends. It twisted upward inside the door; probing, The Shadow worked until the loop had hooked the inner bolthead. Then he manipulated the instrument in twisting fashion. He heard the inner bolt grind back.

The Shadow opened the door and entered. His advance was shrouded, for this door was in darkness.

The Shadow locked the barrier behind him. A tiny flashlight glimmered as he looked about on the ground floor.

The house was musty. Its lower windows were barred. No chance for entry here; huge iron shutters would keep out intruders. The Shadow found a stairway and ascended to the second floor. He saw another flight that led to the third story. Instead of following it, he began a search of the second floor. He entered a room which had a lowered shade. Closing the door, The Shadow pressed a light switch.

His flashlight’s glimmer had given him a brief view; he knew that this was the room he wanted. As he viewed the apartment in full light, The Shadow laughed softly. He was standing in Professor Morth’s study — and it was a most curious room.

In the center was a desk, with book-racks that were laden with technical volumes that dealt with anthropology. At one corner of the room was a small curtained alcove, which appeared to be used for storing articles. In the far corner was a large cupboard with open front.

The contents of the cupboard intrigued The Shadow. Every shelf contained a row of grinning skulls.

From specimens of the cave-man type to heads of modern proportions, this was an exhibit of man’s cranial evolution.

Skulls large and small. Leering, eyeless objects that looked like formidable guardians left on duty by Professor Morth.

The Shadow approached the cupboard. He noted that the shelves were unbacked. A plain wall lay behind them.

Crooks were in search of a skull. There were skulls here in plenty; but there was no choice among those in the cupboard. But as The Shadow turned, he spied a skull that stood alone. Fierce and grim, it was resting, open-jawed, upon a low, squatty cabinet that stood in another corner of the room.

A clock on the wall tingled ten as The Shadow approached this cabinet-mounted skull. He noted that the solitary death’s-head was a manufactured article, not a genuine skull. It was attached to the cabinet, and as The Shadow gazed into the open jaws, he spied what appeared to be a nickel-plated knob directly beneath the center hollow of the skull.

A whispered laugh came from hidden lips. The Shadow, weirdly cloaked, looked like the symbol of death in this room of human relics. The skull on the cabinet looked up as though viewing a visible master.

The skulls in the cupboard were grinning as in greeting. The soft mirth ended suddenly. The Shadow’s keen ears had caught a sound from below. Footsteps in a lower hall. Voices. Men were coming up the stairs. They were moving closer to this room. Quickly, The Shadow pressed out the lights. He swished through darkness and gained the curtained alcove.

THE door of the room opened. Two men entered. One was past middle age; his Vandyke beard was gray. Slight of build, he was, however, brisk and domineering in manner. Peering from the curtain, The Shadow knew that this must be Professor Morth.

The other man, middle-aged and pasty-faced, looked like a servant.

“Very well, Logan,” stated Professor Morth. “You may begin to put the house in order. Leave the downstairs windows closed until tomorrow; but uncover the furniture.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant.

“I am glad you met me at the station,” resumed Morth. “I had forgotten my keys. Let me see” — he pulled open a desk drawer — “ah, yes, here they are.”

Professor Morth went to a door at the rear of the study. He unlocked it. The Shadow caught a glimpse of a bedroom, as the professor entered. Returning with a meerschaum pipe, Morth filled the bowl from a humidor on the desk, then waved a hand to Logan.

“Go downstairs,” he repeated. “Put things in order. Then you can continue your work up here.”

Logan departed, closing the door behind him. Professor Morth lighted his pipe. With a pleased sigh, he looked toward the skull-filled cupboard. He seemed to regard those grinning heads as friends.

Puffing at the meerschaum, the bearded anthropologist turned toward the squatty cabinet. He chuckled as he viewed the mounted skull; he approached and placed his hand upon the artificial death’s-head, stroking it as one would pat a faithful dog.

There was a telephone on Morth’s desk. A buzz attracted the professor’s attention. He approached and picked up the receiver. It was a call from Logan, downstairs.

“What’s that?” queried Morth, sharply. “A visitor? I did not hear the doorbell… Ah, yes, I recall now that one can not hear it here in the study when the door is closed. But I wish to see no one, Logan…

“Something important? What is the visitor’s name?… Homer Hothan… Never heard of him… What’s that? Did you say he came from Hildrew Parchell? Hildrew Parchell is dead… Ah, I begin to understand… This man Hothan was Hildrew’s secretary… Very well, Logan…

“Yes, I shall see him… Certainly, here in the study… Yes, bring up the mail also. Quite an accumulation of it, I suppose… Very well, Logan.”

Professor Morth hung up. He seated himself behind the desk and puffed at the meerschaum. His bearded face was reflective. Morth was thinking of his dead friend, Hildrew Parchell.

From behind the curtain, The Shadow watched the flickers of emotion on the savant’s face. Like Morth, The Shadow was awaiting the arrival of Homer Hothan.