The Third Skull

CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW REVIEWS

“IT’S easy enough to figure it, now that it’s all finished. But it had me guessing.”

It was Joe Cardona who made this admission. The ace detective was standing in Selwood Royce’s living room. He had arrived there in response to a telephone call; and he had brought Doctor Deseurre along, after hearing that Homer Hothan had confessed to the murder of Hildrew Parchell.

Upon Royce’s gun cabinet rested a metal coffer. Its top was open. Compartments showed an assortment of wealth. Stacks of currency; piles of gold coin; an array of glittering jewels. Clyde, Royce and Wingate had found the treasure chest set in the floor of the secret chamber behind the Moorish picture.

This was the wealth that had been with the skull. Wingate was holding a document that they had found in with the treasure. The paper was inscribed in old Hildrew Parchell’s scrawl. It told how the wealth should be divided.

Sums for Channing Tobold and Professor Morth, old friends of Hildrew Parchell. Another amount, smaller, to Selwood Royce, whose father had been the miser’s friend and keeper of the treasure. An amount for Weldon Wingate and Doctor Deseurre; also a provision, larger than any other, for Tristram, the faithful servant. The rest — the bulk of this wealth — was to go to charities named in the list. Roger Parchell was not mentioned.

“YOUNG Roger was a fox,” declared Joe Cardona. “He knew that he didn’t rate too high with his uncle.

Those letters in the correspondence file are proof of it. Homer Hothan was smart, too. He had access to the old man’s papers. He knew, while still working as secretary, that there must be plenty more than the fifty thousand that Hildrew Parchell intended to leave to his nephew.”

“Do you think,” inquired Wingate, “that Roger deliberately sent Hothan to get the job with his uncle?”

“I doubt it,” replied Cardona. “Either Roger made a trip East, to look over the lay, and bribed Hothan; or Hothan may have opened correspondence with Roger himself. Anyway, they got together; and old Hildrew Parchell was on the spot.

“The old man must have known Roger was a bad egg. I’ve a hunch we’ll find out a few things about him when we look up his Frisco record. Anyway, Hildrew Parchell found out that Hothan was a bad egg, too.”

“And fired him,” put in Clyde Burke.

“Yeah,” agreed Cardona. “And this” — he reached to a table and picked up the half-burned message; it had been found in Hothan’s pocket — “this is what started that fire at the old house. Hildrew Parchell must have written this to hand it to you, Royce, with Wingate and Doctor Deseurre present. It’s a cinch the old man tried to burn it when Hothan blew in. Then Hothan killed him. It was murder, after all, doctor.”

Cardona turned to Deseurre as he spoke. The physician smiled dryly.

“Murder, yes,” he agreed. “But murder of a deceptive sort. It was the violence of the struggle that brought on Hildrew Parchell’s death. His heart could not stand the strain.”

“A break for Hothan,” decided Cardona. “He would have had to kill the old man, anyway. Well, Hothan got away with this” — he gestured with the half-burned document — “and he and Roger must have had a heavy confab about it.”

“But Roger was in San Francisco,” put in Wingate. “He answered my telegram and fled East.”

“A stall,” retorted Cardona. “An old one of the simplest kind. Roger knew that his uncle was going to pass out soon. He must have come East to meet up with Hothan a good while before the real work started.

“That’s why he closed his office. He knew what kind of a wire he was due to get when his uncle kicked in. He had an answer ready for it; and he had some friend fixed to receive your telegram when it came in. Also to send the answer.”

“But he called me later from Cincinnati—”

“Because he beat it there after he bumped Tobold. Made a sleeper jump that night and phoned you the next day, saying he’d come East by air. That helped the telegram bluff.”

“I believe you’re right—”

“I am right; and I can tell you more… now that the works has busted wide. Roger and Hothan got together. They had half a note; and the worst part of it was this. It didn’t tell just who had the swag.”

CARDONA pointed to the charred edge of the half-burned paper. He nicked the ninth line; then the tenth; finally the eleventh. Three in a row.

“Here’s where they were out of luck,” chuckled Joe. “The other lines could be doped out; but these three couldn’t. First off, a name was missing. In the ninth line; in the tenth, too. Then there was an important word gone in the eleventh.

“Who was the old friend that had the treasure? Channing Tobold? Tyson Morth? Or Thatcher Royce, already dead? Any one of those names might have been there. What was it they were to ask to see?

“Their first guess was jewelry; because Hothan knew Tobold had some that belonged to old Hildrew Parchell. So they hit the hockshop and they spotted the skull ring before they asked for it. They thought they had what they wanted; but they were wrong. They got a bunch of junk jewelry.

“Roger Parchell must have hired Flick Sherrad in Frisco. Flick was on the lam and probably out there. It would have been a cinch to sign up a bird like Flick and ship him East to have a mob ready. Frisco’s a good spot for making contact like that. Anyway, Flick was on hand to help at Tobold’s. After the jewelry turned out to be junk, Roger had Flick unload it with Koko Gluss, to make it look like a bunch of small-fry had pulled the job.”

“I gave him the idea,” mused Wingate. “Inadvertently, when I was talking about the robbery at Tobold’s. I mentioned that we thought apprentices had done the work; and that if the jewelry appeared with some fence, we would have proof of it.”

“Well, he took it up,” asserted Cardona. “And the next bet was Morth’s. When Hothan went there, he saw that lot of skulls. There was something he didn’t have to ask to see. Skulls! Boy — I’ll bet he thought he was in luck!

“He thought he knew which skull was right. He hadn’t asked to see them; they were looking at him. And he recognized one that looked swell. It was different from the lot. The mechanical skull on the cabinet.”

“The mesaticephalic, mesognathous skull,” began Selwood Royce. “The one with the ensnaring mandible—”

Royce was chuckling. Cardona grinned.

“The tin skull with the trick jaw,” interrupted the detective. “Anyway, Hothan shoved his fist in it. We know the rest. Hothan got away; Flick was still loose; and Roger Parchell knew he had picked another bum bet.

“All that he had left was this place here. Thatcher Royce might have been the ‘old friend’ mentioned in the document. But what was to be asked for? Where was the skull? Roger decided to find out.”

“By having his crowd look through the north wing!” exclaimed Royce. “Roger told Hothan to come out here, with the rest of them. I know how Hothan got into the house. Through that veranda door. Roger must have unbolted it.”

“He did it when we were going up to the art gallery,” exclaimed Clyde. “The first time we went up. Roger stopped to light a cigarette near that door. And I think that he signaled later, from the window of the living room.”

“Hothan bolted the door after coming in,” added Royce. “Then he went to the gallery, unbolted the connecting door to the north wing, went through and let in the mob-leader and the crew.”

“Hothan made a lucky find in the art gallery,” stated Wingate. “He must have recognized that the Moorish picture was a skull, when he came back from the north wing. We surprised him when we arrived; and then” — the lawyer’s tone sobered — “then I killed him.”

“YOU killed him?” snorted Cardona. “Where do you get that? I’ve been looking at the body, along with the local doctor. Say — you only nicked him with that .32 of yours. But you gave Roger Parchell a chance to get rid of the guy. He finished him with the .38. He didn’t want to give Hothan a chance to squawk.”

“About the fight that followed,” began Wingate. “It was very strange. We were rescued by a strange unknown fighter—”

“Let’s forget those complications,” interrupted Cardona. “Whoever helped you was in the right. Whoever dropped Roger Parchell picked off a murderer. I’ve got labels for all the mugs who were shot in that gallery. Just let it pass. You fellows were fighting to resist criminal invaders. This house belongs to Selwood Royce; he gave guns to you, Wingate, and to you, Burke. The three of you are square with the law.”

Clyde Burke smiled. He knew that Joe Cardona had figured out The Shadow’s part. Wisely, the detective was covering the fact that The Shadow had been present.

Joe knew that The Shadow preferred to remain in the dark. Time and again, the cloaked fighter had aided Cardona in struggles against crime. The ace was returning the favor.

“Roger Parchell knew that fifty thousand dollars was all that he was to get,” summed up Cardona. “He wanted to grab a million — and he played a foxy game to get it. But he shot his bolt. He got what he deserved.”

Others nodded. Then Selwood Royce smiled.

“It was a terrific battle.” he decided. “Too bad, in a way, that Lamont Cranston wasn’t here to aid us. I understand he’s a big-game hunter. He would have proven a valuable ally.”

“I’m glad Cranston isn’t here,” remarked Wingate, dryly. “There are no scarabs in with the treasure. If Hildrew Parchell had any scarabs, he must have disposed of them. Cranston would have been disappointed.”

“That’s true. By the way, Wingate, you were somewhat mistrustful of Cranston, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I was suspicious of him when he first came to see me. I had him watched after he left the apartment. But I decided later that he must have once met Hildrew Parchell.”

WHILE these men were speaking of Lamont Cranston, their own names were, curiously, under consideration somewhere else. A light was gleaming in The Shadow’s sanctum. The cloaked fighter had returned to Manhattan.

The Shadow had come in with Cliff and Hawkeye. He had ordered those workers to Long Island, to wait near Royce’s mansion. But the storm had drowned the sound of the house-muffled battle. The few remaining gorillas of Flick’s crew had escaped The Shadow’s agents in the rainy darkness.

A huge book lay beneath the bluish light. Upon a blank page, The Shadow was making entries in a careful handwriting that stood out as clear as print. Names were being recorded; with them, comments.

The Shadow was reviewing his deductions — how he had narrowed down the list of those concerned with Hildrew Parchell, until only one remained. He had eliminated Tristram from the outset. The servant, had he had any part in plotting, would not have extinguished the fire in the bedroom as promptly as he had.

The Shadow wrote the physician’s name. Beneath it, he added the conclusive comment: Deseurre could have eliminated Hildrew Parchell without Hothan’s aid. He could have learned more than the secretary, had he wished. The use of Hothan cleared Deseurre from blame; but not from danger.

The comment showed why The Shadow had requested Rupert Sayre to watch Raymond Deseurre. The Shadow wanted to make sure that Deseurre was clear from menace. Sayre’s observations, though broken, were sufficient to show that Deseurre was not in trouble.

The Shadow inscribed the lawyer’s name and studied it for a moment. Then, he inscribed:

The third name The Shadow inscribed was:

The Shadow’s comment was as follows:

The Shadow came to his final summary. He wrote the name of the real villain — the only man who could logically have been the crook behind the chain of crime.

The name showed grimly from the page. The Shadow’s hand inscribed this statement:

INK was drying. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. All that Joe Cardona had figured out tonight had been previously uncovered by The Shadow. From the moment that The Shadow had seen the presence of a master band, he had begun a process of elimination.

Of all who had appeared in connection with Hildrew Parchell, only Roger Parchell could have played the part of controlling crook. The Shadow had worked out that discovery after the murder of Channing Tobold had told him that some one other than Homer Hothan and mobsters were in the game.

Flick Sherrad had been needed to direct mob onslaughts. Some one higher up had done the work. Yet The Shadow had not rejected another possibility; namely, that some unknown crime master had been the backer of this evil.

The Shadow had given Roger Parchell the benefit of such doubt up until the very climax of crime’s reign.

Then, in the entry to Sherwood Royce’s art gallery, The Shadow had played the trump that told all. His slump to the floor had been the great move. It had given Roger Parchell the perfect chance to prove himself the master murderer.

Long-fingered hands closed the massive volume wherein the ink had dried on lettered pages. A low laugh shivered through the black-walled sanctum. The Shadow’s victory had been a triumph for the law. The muse of justice had been upheld.

The massive tome beneath The Shadow’s hands contained the details of The Shadow’s work. The amazing record belonged with other annals. Crime, like the book, was closed. The history of “The Third Skull” had become another chronicle for the archives of The Shadow.