The Third Skull

CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND SKULL

FIVE minutes had passed since Logan’s announcement of a visitor. Professor Morth was still behind his desk, busy opening his mail. Across from him was Homer Hothan.

The sallow man was looking curiously about. Logan had gone downstairs again. The door of the study was closed.

After shaking hands with Hothan, Morth had requested the visitor to sit down and wait a few minutes.

Morth wanted to go through his mail before he talked with Hildrew Parchell’s ex-secretary. At times, Hothan watched the professor; at other moments, he continued his roving inspection of the study.

The Shadow, in darkness behind the curtain, saw a keen flicker on Hothan’s face as the fellow viewed the skull-filled cupboard. Then he saw disappointment reflected in Hothan’s gaze. Keenness returned, however, when Hothan spied that squatty cabinet in the corner. The sallow man spotted the glimmer from within the mounted skull.

Professor Morth looked up suddenly as he heard a slight chuckle that Hothan gave unconsciously.

Hothan was quick to look in another direction. His face became dull as he sought to cover up his mistake. Morth laid letters aside and relighted his meerschaum.

“Very well, young man,” declared the professor. “I am ready to converse with you. What is the purpose of this visit? You say you were once Hildrew Parchell’s secretary?”

“Yes,” nodded Hothan, “and at present I am acting in behalf of his estate. I was sent here by Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell’s attorney.”

“Wingate sent you here?”

There was something doubtful in Morth’s tone. Hothan was smart enough to know the reason. He had not been idle while watching Morth read his mail.

“I believe,” purred Hothan, suavely, “that Mr. Wingate wrote you. He indicated that fact to me. He said that he had expected to hear from you. Because he had not, he suggested that I call here.”

“Ah, yes.” Morth nodded. “That would explain it. I have just been reading a brief letter from Wingate. He wants me to communicate with him, in reference to Hildrew Parchell. But he stated nothing else.”

“He believed that he would hear from you,” remarked Hothan. “He told me that when he called me on the telephone tonight. Our conversation was brief; he merely asked me to call here and discuss matters with you.”

“What matters?”

“Relating to Hildrew Parchell’s estate.”

“I know nothing of Hildrew Parchell’s affairs.”

“You were his friend.”

“We had a mutual interest in anthropology. Hildrew used to call here to discuss his theories on evolution. That was our only connection.”

“But correspondence passed between you—”

“Come, come!” Morth was irritable in his interjection. “Why this fol-de-rol, young man? What is this fellow Wingate, a blather-skite? — to send you here on an errand that had no purpose?”

“Let me explain.” urged Hothan. “Mr. Wingate intends to settle Hildrew Parchell’s estate.”

“Certainly. Then let him settle it.”

“But in order to do so, he requires more information. Papers in the Parchell files are incomplete. Mr. Wingate believes that perhaps some friends of Hildrew Parchell could furnish letters that might add information.”

“This is understandable,” decided Morth, in a mollified tone. “Yet it is ridiculous to suppose that I could supply any data. I have a few letters from Parchell. They all pertain to anthropology.”

“Where are they, professor?”

“I believe” — Morth paused reflectively and puffed a smoke screen from his pipe — “I believe that they must be in the bedroom. There is an old box in the closet that contains old letters. It would take me ten minutes, though, to search through them.”

“I would appreciate it, sir—”

“The letters would be of no value to Wingate.”

“Perhaps not, professor. But I could at least report that I had seen them.”

“Very well.” Professor Morth arose and placed his big pipe on an ash stand. “Remain here, Mr. Hothan, until I return.”

THE professor went into the bedroom, closing the connecting door behind him. The Shadow, listening from the study alcove, heard the click of a light switch; then footsteps going across the adjoining room.

The Shadow peered toward Hothan. He saw an eager, cunning look on the sallow face. The Shadow expected action. It came.

Rising, Hothan sneaked quickly to the squatty cabinet. He thrust his hand between the open jaws of the artificial skull. He turned the knob that he had seen within, expecting that it would open the cabinet, which had no visible door.

As Hothan performed this action, the unexpected came. With a sharp click, the jaws of the skull snapped shut. Strong teeth, backed by metal rowels, caught the interloper’s hand in a ferocious, mechanical bite.

A howl came from Hothan. Pain and surprise caused his instinctive cry. Helplessly trapped, Hothan could not move. His right hand was in a viselike clutch; the heavy cabinet was clamped to the floor.

The door of the bedroom opened. Professor Morth appeared in response to Hothan’s outcry. The anthropologist was chuckling as he viewed Hothan’s plight.

Snarling, the trapped man reached across his body with his left hand, striving to pull a gun from his coat pocket on the right.

Morth sprang spryly forward. He found the pocket before Hothan could reach it. The anthropologist brought forth a shiny .32 revolver.

“A dangerous toy,” chuckled Morth, retiring to his desk. “Well, well, young man! Curiosity has caused you trouble.”

“Let me out of this!” pleaded Hothan.

“Not yet,” replied Morth. “We must talk things over first. “Suppose” — he was relighting his meerschaum as he spoke — “that you first use your left hand to reach beneath the cabinet. You will find a knob there. Turn it.”

“And get myself in worse?”

“Do as I order.”

MORTH’S tone was commanding. To add to its force, the professor picked up the .32 and wagged the weapon.

Hothan reached beneath the cabinet and found the knob. He turned it. A close-fitted door sprang open in the front of the cabinet. Stooping, Hothan stared. The cabinet was empty.

“Merely a trap,” declared Morth. “You see, young man, I frequently leave town; and this house might prove attractive to some burglar. So I devised this trap to be in keeping with the setting. The skull that holds you is mechanically designed to lure prospective thieves.

“Just an empty cabinet. In fact, there is nothing of great value anywhere in this house. I designed the cabinet, however, as a safe for any valuables, should I choose to keep them here. I always wanted to see how the snare would work. I am satisfied.”

“Then let me out.”

“Why?” Morth’s tone was harsh. “You have proven yourself a prospective thief. I want to see what action the law will take in such a case as this. It will be useful for future reference.”

With that, Morth reached for the telephone. Hothan protested wildly. The professor paused.

“Don’t call the police!” was Hothan’s plea. “It — it would ruin my reputation with Mr. Wingate. Honestly, professor, I was only trying to — to be of aid to him.”

“By trying to rob me?” quizzed Morth, sarcastically.

“No,” returned Hothan. “I’ll be honest professor. I–I was looking for something that belonged to Hildrew Parchell. I–I thought it might be in this cabinet.”

“Preposterous!”

“No, professor. You see, old Mr. Parchell wrote — I mean he told me before he — that is, he told me once that there was something important with the skull.”

“With what skull?”

“Just the skull. His message — that is, what he said, was incomplete. There was more that he didn’t — that he didn’t tell, but might have. Wealth with the skull. That’s why I wanted — why Mr. Wingate wanted to talk with old friends of Hildrew Parchell.”

“Why didn’t you state this at first?”

“I intended to bring up the matter. I didn’t notice the skull when I first came in. I did see those there in the rack” — Hothan pointed with his left hand — “but it wasn’t until you left the study that I realized this might be the skull. I–I was excited. I forgot myself.”

“Unwise of you.” Morth’s tone was dry. “Well, young man, you made a mistake. You walked into a coincidence. As an anthropologist, I have collected skulls. But none of them are concerned with any secret that belongs to Hildrew Parchell.”

“Then you will let me go?”

“Yes, I shall release you — after the police have come.”

DETERMINED in his statement, Professor Morth reached for the telephone. Hothan struggled at the skull; his efforts were futile. He tried to pry the lower jaw with his left hand. He could not. The skull had clamped to stay. Some secret device alone would open it. Only Professor Morth knew the method.

From the alcove, The Shadow watched Hothan’s desperate effort. He realized the man’s plight. Hothan had taken a wrong track. Like the silver skull, this second skull was not the one that guarded Hildrew Parchell’s treasure.

But should the police arrive, Hothan would be forced to confess. Foolishly, he had talked too much in urging Professor Morth to release him. This time, Joe Cardona would certainly see a connection. Hothan was afraid that police questioning would force him to admission of his crimes.

The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the desk. Morth had raised the receiver of the telephone, he was trying to get an outside line. But the wire was dead. Morth looked perplexed as he jiggled the hook. The Shadow, however, was not puzzled. The failure of the telephone came to him as a warning.

Quickly, The Shadow looked toward the door that led to the hall. The Shadow had remembered that that door prevented any one in the study from hearing a ring at the front door of the house.

The Shadow was picturing what might have happened; and as he directed his eyes toward the door of the room, he spied the barrier swinging inward.

With a quick thrust, The Shadow swung the curtain of the alcove to one side. His gloved hands shot beneath his cloak; they swept out again, bringing a brace of automatics. At the same instant, Professor Morth leaped up from his desk, grabbing Hothan’s revolver. The savant, too, was turning toward the door.

Armed men were coming into the lighted study. They were mobsters, hard-faced rogues like the troupe that had invaded Tobold’s pawnshop.

Once again, fighters from the underworld were backing Homer Hothan.