Six Men of Evil

CHAPTER XVII INTO THE NIGHT

SARGON’S JEWELRY SHOP was the most pretentious store in the prosperous town of Sharport, North Dakota. On Saturday night, when the main street of Sharport was crowded, the store stayed open until ten o’clock. Occasionally, worthwhile business came in just before closing time.

This night, James Sargon, the proprietor, was seated in the little office back of the store when Maurice Cotter, his trusted junior partner, came in to inform him that Raymond Dagwood and Horace Fenwick had come to the shop.

“Show them in!” exclaimed Sargon, in a pleased tone.

The two men entered and Sargon, rising to greet them, rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. He proffered a box of expensive cigars and sat down at his desk after the visitors were seated. Cotter, the junior jeweler, remained at the open door so that he could see the visitors and the outside shop as well.

James Sargon, the jeweler, was a prosperous-looking man who had done well in his long term of business. He was elderly and of obsequious manner. His understudy, Maurice Cotter, was a young man who aped his superior. Both were servile in the presence of Raymond Dagwood, who was reputed to be the most wealthy man in Sharport.

Dagwood was a stout, imposing individual who was filled with self-importance. Most of the natives of Sharport lived in awe of him.

Horace Fenwick, who had come to Sharport less than a year ago, was one of the few who managed to work up a real acquaintance with Raymond Dagwood. Hence, Dagwood, like so many puffed-up persons of his type, had made Fenwick one of his real confidants and the two were on the most friendly terms. Dagwood felt that those whom he favored should be accorded the same respect that he gained.

“Good evening, Sargon,” said Dagwood, in a condescending tone. “Mr. Fenwick was at my home this evening. Dropped in to see me and we began talking about those diamonds that I have considered buying from you. I should like to have Fenwick see them.”

“Certainly, Mr. Dagwood,” said the jeweler with a bow. “I shall be glad to show them to you. A wonderful collection, Mr. Fenwick. Wonderful!”

He arose and opened a door at the rear of the office. It led to a strong room. The visitors entered; Sargon followed. Maurice Cotter went back to attend the shop.

James Sargon opened a large safe and brought forth flat boxes which he placed upon a table. He opened them one by one to display a collection of glittering diamonds.

As he had said, the gems were of high value. Dagwood pointed out certain pieces to Fenwick.

“Here is the list,” remarked Sargon, taking a sheet of paper from the safe.

Fenwick nodded. He glanced at the list of items and gave it back to Sargon. Finishing a brief inspection of the gems, Fenwick signified that he was satisfied.

“What do you think of them, Mr. Fenwick?” questioned Sargon, as he began to replace the boxes.

“Quite good,” responded Fenwick. “I fancy that they are worth the amount that you have asked.”

Sargon laid the list in the safe with the boxes and closed the door of the strong box. He turned to Fenwick and spoke in a convincing tone.

“They are worth every bit of three hundred thousand dollars!” he declared. “Indeed they are, Mr. Fenwick, indeed they are! You know their history — they came from the Davis estates and I obtained them in hopes that Mr. Dagwood would buy at least a portion of them. I shall hold them for a while longer, because I am sure that Mr. Dagwood will buy.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” returned Dagwood, brusquely. “Nevertheless, you can count upon at least a partial sale, Sargon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dagwood,” bowed the jeweler, “thank you. I am keeping these while I await your decision. The diamonds are safe here” — he looked about the room approvingly — “because I have fitted this room with every device for security. Only Cotter and myself can enter here. We have spared no pains in assuring the best of protection.”

“I was looking at Mr. Dagwood’s present collection of gems,” remarked Fenwick, in a matter-of-fact tone. “He tells me that he has never gone in for jewels to any great extent.”

“I fancy that my gems would bring about thirty thousand dollars,” interposed Dagwood. “I should scarcely call it a collection, Horace.”

“You have some nice items,” replied Fenwick, “and it was my suggestion” — he turned to Sargon — “that Mr. Dagwood should have his own jewels appraised carefully before going ahead with this contemplated purchase. Suppose, Sargon, that you look them over?”

“Gladly! Gladly!” responded the jeweler. “Any time, Mr. Dagwood. I should indeed be pleased to appraise your jewels—”

“We are going back to your house,” suggested Fenwick, turning to Dagwood. “Of course, Mr. Sargon can not well leave here—”

“Indeed I can,” interposed Sargon, quickly. “It is nearly closing time and Cotter is in charge here.”

“A good idea,” declared Dagwood. “Come along, Sargon. My car is outside. You can ride up to the house with us. I’ll have you look over my jewelry right away. I might dispose of some items in connection with the purchase of these diamonds that you have.”

The three men left the strong room, Sargon carefully closing the door behind them. The jeweler spoke to Maurice Cotter and explained where he was going. The three men left by a side door which locked automatically after they had departed.

As they passed under a dim street lamp, Horace Fenwick raised one hand. He made a slight motion as he formed his thumb and fingers into a crescent sign. The thumb and fingers were turned upward.

A car was parked in the darkness across the sweet. A man, seated at the wheel, made no response. But he had seen that sign. Charles Kistelle — for he was the watching man — smiled grotesquely in the darkness.

At the same moment, a figure detached itself from the side of Kistelle’s coupe. Moving silently, it reached the sidewalk and followed the three men who were walking along the street to Raymond Dagwood’s limousine. The phantom form attached itself to the rear of the big car.

When Dagwood’s limousine arrived at the wealthy man’s mansion, ten minutes later, it stopped directly behind Horace Fenwick’s small sedan. Raymond Dagwood alighted, accompanied by James Sargon and Horace Fenwick. The chauffeur drove up the drive, avoiding Fenwick’s car.

Dagwood, Sargon and Fenwick entered the mansion. Not one of them turned to look back. None saw the phantom shape that followed noiselessly. The three entered the house. Dagwood was speaking as he led the way through the door.

“We shall go right upstairs,” he said. “I have the jewels in a safe in my bedroom. You can look at them right away, Sargon.”

Fenwick was the last to enter the door and he paused suddenly. He fancied that he had heard his name whispered in the darkness. He seemed to recognize the voice of Charles Kistelle. He paused on the door sill.

“Chicquatil!”

The whispered word startled Fenwick. It was the countersign that he had given Kistelle tonight in Fargo. In an instant, he decided that something must have gone wrong; that Kistelle had hurried here to intercept him.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he called to Dagwood, who, with Sargon, was halfway across the ground-floor hall. “I just want to see that my car is all right. I may have left the key in it.”

“All right, Horace,” called back Dagwood.

Fenwick stepped outside and closed the front door. He moved into the darkness toward the spot where he had heard the whispered word. He stopped — a cry of surprise caught upon his twisted lips.

Two burning eyes were staring from the darkness. The muzzle of an automatic was rammed against Fenwick’s ribs. He had walked into a perfectly laid trap.

“Come!”

The command was uttered in a sepulchral whisper that made Fenwick’s limbs quiver. He did not know the identity of this person in the dark; but, instinctively, his mind leaped back to a night, long ago, when he had been riding northward to the border line of Mexico.

“The Shadow!”

Charles Kistelle had uttered that name on the last night — and the strange title had stuck in Fenwick’s mind. The Shadow — the only man whom Charley Kistelle had feared. Could this be the weird personage who had driven the master crook into obscurity?

THE man who called himself Horace Fenwick did not know. He realized only that he had met his master; that he was walking mechanically toward the driveway at the bidding of an invisible being, who had materialized from nowhere to overwhelm him with fear such as he had never before known.

They were going toward the car. The whispered voice was stern and sinister. It was ordering Fenwick to take the wheel. The crook obeyed. The threatening automatic still pressed against Fenwick’s body. The eyes were glaring; but Fenwick did not see them. He was staring straight ahead, obeying The Shadow’s command.

The whisper gave the destination. Fenwick nodded shakily and started the car. He could do nothing but obey, for he realized that a moment’s hesitation would mean his doom. He was going back to the jewelry store, at The Shadow’s bidding.

Fenwick uttered a scarcely audible groan as he followed the route toward the place from which he had so recently come. A distant chime was striking ten. They were going back into the night — Horace Fenwick and The Shadow — to the spot where the master crook was now at work!