Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER X THE FOURTH CRIME

“BURBANK speaking.”

The words were uttered in a quiet tone by a man who sat in front of a table in a lonely room. Head and shoulders were back to the dim light that came from a hanging lamp. The man’s face was out of sight; his right hand was resting on a plug that he had inserted in a switchboard.

“Marsland,” came a steady voice over the wire.

“Report,” ordered Burbank.

“With Slug Bracken,” informed Cliff. “Due to meet him at his car in three minutes. We’re going to Hubert Bexler’s.”

“How many all together?”

“Five. I think Slug will pull the job himself. He’ll make the getaway alone. With the swag. That’s all.”

“Report received.”

Burbank pulled out the plug. A few moments later, another light glistened. Burbank plugged in to receive a report from Harry Vincent.

One hour had elapsed since the robbery at Ferrell Gault’s. Harry and the other guests had been allowed to leave. Satisfied that Pug Halfin was nowhere about, Harry was calling Burbank to give a brief report of the mysterious occurrences at the millionaire’s.

“Report received.”

With his final statement. Burbank withdrew the plug. He made a quick insertion in the switchboard, for another light was glowing. As he received a response to his statement of identity, Burbank promptly recognized the new speaker.

It was The Shadow, talking in the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston. Tersely, Burbank gave Cliff’s report; then followed with Harry’s story. That completed — no orders followed — Burbank pulled out the switch and settled down to await new calls that might not come for hours. Burbank seldom performed active duties for The Shadow; his passive endurance, however, made him an agent of unique value. As contact man, he never tired, no matter how long his vigil might be.

IN the lobby of a downtown hotel, Lamont Cranston was speaking to Doris Munson. Cranston had just made a telephone call. The next plan was an after-theater lunch in the grill room of the hotel. Quietly, Cranston offered an apology.

“I was talking to Hubert Bexler,” he told the girl. “I promised to call his home this evening. He is anxious for me to come there at once.”

“Any trouble?” questioned Doris, anxiously.

“He fears a robbery,” explained Cranston. “Like those at Dutton’s and Brockthorpe’s. He seems very anxious for me to visit him. Would it be asking too much—”

“Of course not,” interposed Doris. “You must certainly go to Mr. Bexler’s at once. I can take a taxi home.”

“No, indeed,” returned Cranston. “My limousine is outside. I shall have Stanley drive us to your apartment house. I may be a few minutes later than Bexler expects; that will not matter.”

Cranston accompanied the girl to the street. They entered the globetrotter’s limousine. Stanley received his orders. Fifteen minutes later. Lamont Cranston said good night to Doris Munson in the lobby of the girl’s apartment house.

ROLLING onward in his limousine, Lamont Cranston rested back upon the cushions. Stanley was bound for Hubert Bexler’s. A soft laugh came from Cranston’s immobile lips. That whispered mockery was an echo of The Shadow’s mirth.

Three crimes had been accomplished. The Shadow, though he had not prevented them, had gained an insight into Mark Tyrell’s methods. In his sanctum, he had mapped out the schemer’s ways of working.

His own observations — the reports from his agents — his preliminary survey gained from his first contact with Tyrell at the Paragon Hotel — all had served The Shadow well. To-night, by keeping an engagement with Doris Munson, he had deliberately absented himself from the scene of crime. He had paved the way for Tyrell’s scheme.

Why? Did The Shadow fear Tyrell’s threat regarding the lives that might be at stake? That could have been the answer. At Dutton’s — at Brockthorpe’s — at Gault’s, to-night — there had been danger to innocent persons. The Shadow was thinking of the darkness in the paneled room, which Harry Vincent had reported. A shot in that blackness could have spelled quick death.

There was another explanation, however, of The Shadow’s actions. Perhaps it was the reason for the soft laugh in the limousine. By playing a passive part as Cranston, The Shadow was giving Tyrell the definite impression that his threats had struck home. The Shadow was making himself appear to be a soft antagonist. When would the pretence end? Only The Shadow knew!

The limousine had crossed the East River. It was speeding along a broad highway. Hubert Bexler lived on Long Island, in an exclusive residential district. Stanley chose a road that led to the right. Half a mile on, he turned into a gravel drive and pulled up in front of Hubert Bexler’s home.

The house was a gloomy structure, lighted only at the front, downstairs. But Lamont Cranston was not looking toward the house. He was busy in the back seat of the limousine. From a briefcase that he had drawn into view, he was extracting cloak and hat; also a pair of automatics.

Stanley had stopped the car past others that were parked in the drive. The door opened by the back seat; unseen by his chauffeur, The Shadow glided from the car. Stanley heard the floor swing shut. He supposed that Lamont Cranston had stepped from the limousine.

There was a narrow lawn at this side of Bexler’s house. Beyond it was a hedge. It was this path that The Shadow took. He ignored a walk that led to a side door; instead, he weaved a way close by the hedge. He avoided trees and shrubbery without difficulty.

Low voices made The Shadow pause. Listening by the hedge, he heard men speaking. Among the whispers, he recognized the tones of Cliff Marsland. Then came a growl from the leader of this hidden crew.

“I’m going in with Muff.” The Shadow knew that Slug Bracken must be speaking. “You birds stick out here. If there’s any racket, use your gats. You know how. That’s all.”

“Afterward?” came Cliff’s question.

“The swag goes in the touring car,” responded Slug. “I’m driving away alone. You gorillas use the sedan.”

Two forms shoved through an opening in the hedge. Slug caught himself, almost stumbling. The men moved along toward the house. The Shadow glided after them. When he reached the side door, the mobleader and his henchman were no longer there. The pair had gone inside.

The Shadow followed. He reached a narrow stairway. He took it to the second floor. He paused outside the door of a room. He could hear low mumbles; the glare of a flashlight was full upon the combination of a vault. Slug Bracken was working while “Muff” Motter held the light.

THE SHADOW edged back into darkness. Five minutes passed. Then came a muffled growl. Slug Bracken was boasting to Muff Motter.

“Say” — the words were audible to The Shadow — “this box was a cinch. There’s the piece of junk we want. Lend a hold, Muff. We’ll drag it out.”

A sliding sound; then came the shuffle of feet. The light was out; Slug and Muff were coming past The Shadow’s post, carrying a heavy object between them. Against the dim light of the stairway window. The Shadow could see that they were carrying a small, chairlike throne that was evidently of considerable weight.

Carefully, the two men made their way down the stairs. They reached the doorway below. Thumps were muffled enough to make no great noise. The Shadow had followed to the steps. He paused to stare from the window. He could distinguish the two forms moving toward the hedge.

Once again, The Shadow’s actions had been paradoxical. He had deliberately allowed the two crooks to enter and open Bexler’s vault. He had permitted them to carry away the collector’s most cherished possession, the Persian throne of the boy king!

Why had The Shadow failed to act? Was he heeding Tyrell’s threat? That was a logical answer. For The Shadow, as he descended the stairs, paused by a door that led to a front room. The buzz of voices reached his ears.

Hubert Bexler was entertaining guests in a room on this side of the house. The windows of that room opened directly toward the hedge. Had trouble started in the house, mobsmen could have opened fire with direct aim.

By ignoring the theft of the throne, The Shadow had prevented possible murder. At the same time, he might have acted with certainty. He could have overpowered Slug Brackett and Muff Motter while they were at the door of the vault. Meanwhile, Cliff Marsland could have disposed of the two outside mobsters who thought that he was one of their own ilk.

All had been set for an easy victory on the part of The Shadow and his agent. Quick shots by The Shadow and Cliff would have prevented any attack upon Bexler and his guests. Yet The Shadow, still passive, had preferred to continue his waiting game. He had brought along his automatics only for emergency.

Two cars were easing away from beyond the hedge as The Shadow reached the lawn. He retraced his way to the limousine. He opened the door softly and deposited black garments in the bag. The automatics followed. Stanley, half-asleep behind the wheel, did not hear the door open; nor did he hear it close.

IN the side room of his house, Hubert Bexler was talking to three other men when the door bell rang. A servant went to answer it. The lone menial returned, ushering in Lamont Cranston. Hubert Bexler advanced to receive his guest.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the gray-haired collector. “I am pleased to see you, Cranston. You promised to drop in on me some time—”

“I was driving by,” interposed Cranston. “Just thought that I might find you still up at this late hour.”

“Meet my friends,” said Bexler. “Business associates from Chicago. They are the cause for my absence from Gault’s this evening. I suppose you were there, Cranston?”

“No,” responded the new guest. “I had business here on Long Island.”

Cranston shook hands with Bexler’s friends, while the gray-haired collector introduced them by name. Then came another ring at the door. The servant answered it; he returned to announce that Detective Cardona had arrived.

“That’s right!” recalled Bexler. “Show him in, Cuthbert. I was telling you gentlemen about this man from headquarters” — Bexler turned to the men from Chicago — “and I mentioned that he might be here this evening to look at my vault. Ah! Here he is.”

Joe Cardona had entered. Bexler stepped forward to meet him. As he shook hands with Bexler, Cardona nodded to Cranston. The detective’s face wore a serious expression that Bexler did not notice.

“I decided you were not coming,” declared the gray-haired man. “After all, I can depend upon my vault. I think that you will agree with me that it is quite secure.”

“Not after what happened to-night, Mr. Bexler,” returned Cardona, seriously. “The crooks have struck again.”

“What!”

“I have just come from Gault’s. His jeweled Buddha has been stolen.”

“The Buddha from the old temple in Yamagata! Impossible! Gault had it in a vault as strong as mine!”

“He took it out of the vault. He showed it to a party of guests in a paneled room. The Buddha was stolen from there.”

“With the guests present?”

“Yes. But the room was dark. I can give you the details later. Right now, I’m thinking about your possessions, Mr. Bexler. Is that throne of yours safe?”

“Certainly. It’s in the vault, upstairs.”

“I’d like to look at it. We are dealing with some mighty smart crooks, Mr. Bexler. That’s why I came out here. I couldn’t trace Gault’s Buddha. I decided to make sure that your throne was protected.”

“Come upstairs. All of you” — Bexler turned to the others — “and see my vault. My word! Gault’s Buddha, with its emeralds! It’s worth as much as Dutton’s Sicilian tapestry, or Brockthorpe’s Chinese screens.

“But my Persian throne, too, is equal in value to that Buddha. Come along” — Bexler was moving toward the doorway to the stairs — “and see it for yourselves. While you are examining the vault, Cardona, the others might as well view my one great prize.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Bexler halted the group. He had turned on a light from below; he was ready to enter the room in which the vault was located.

“I alone know the combination to my vault,” he stated. “I change it frequently and never keep a record of it. One time I forgot the combination” — Bexler paused to chuckle — “and we had to call in a paroled expert who had done a term in Sing Sing. It took him two hours to open it.

“I changed the combination again after that episode. I always make it a policy to have no one in the room while I turn the combination. Therefore, gentlemen, you will wait here until I call you.”

“Of course,” agreed Joe Cardona, impatiently.

Bexler turned on a light as he stepped into the room. He swung toward the vault, which was visible to him alone. A hollow gasp came from his lips. He clasped his hands to his chest and stared, motionless.

Joe Cardona sprang to Bexler’s side. The others followed. All saw the reason for the collector’s gasp. Before them was the opened door of the vault. In the light that entered from the room, they could see that the vault was empty.

“Gone — gone” — Bexler’s voice was an almost incoherent stammer — “my Persian throne. A quarter of a million — gone—”

HALF an hour later, a group of sober guests left Hubert Bexler’s home. Detective Joe Cardona had found no reason to hold them. Hubert Bexler himself had insisted that they could not have aided in the theft of his Persian throne.

It was apparent that the burglars had entered by the side door of the house. The door, like that of the vault, was open. Cardona decided that they had opened the formidable vault and had removed the throne while Bexler was engaged with his guests.

As Joe Cardona followed the men who had left, he found Lamont Cranston standing by the door of his limousine. The detective paused to speak to the globetrotter.

“Serious business, this,” remarked Cranston.

“It is,” admitted Cardona. “Maybe we’re not at the end of it.”

“How so?”

“There may be other collectors of these rare curios.”

“I hardly think so. None with such valued treasures. I am speaking, of course, of those who own — or owned — but one prize item.”

“There’s a man named Powers Jordan,” remarked Cardona, “and he has a sort of crown that’s worth as much as any of these things that have been lifted.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I called him up. Dutton gave me his name, after the first robbery. Jordan said he had sold the crown. He used to travel around with these other collectors. But he isn’t interested any more.”

“Then this means the end of it.”

“I hope so, Mr. Cranston. Good night.”

As Cardona was about to move forward to his car, which was parked ahead of the limousine, he heard Cranston’s quiet voice detaining him. The detective paused.

“Cardona,” Lamont Cranston asked quietly, “just what do you estimate as the value of these objects that have been stolen? Do you think that they average two-hundred thousand dollars each?”

“More than that,” returned Cardona, in an emphatic tone. “I’ve checked the values. Call it an average of a quarter million — and that’s putting it conservative.”

“A great deal of money,” observed Cranston. “Good night, Cardona.”

“Good night,” rejoined the detective.

Cranston entered his limousine. The car followed Cardona’s from the drive. As his car reached the broad highway to Manhattan, the solitary passenger in the limousine indulged in a thoughtful soliloquy.

“Five thefts.” The tone was the whispered hiss of The Shadow, although it came from the lips of Lamont Cranston. “One million dollars. That was Tyrell’s claim. Four thefts have been completed.”

A hand stretched out. It grasped the speaking tube to the chauffeur’s seat. The Shadow spoke — this time in the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston. Stanley inclined his head to hear his master’s words.

“Stanley,” came the unexpected question, “how much is two hundred and fifty thousand, multiplied by five? One million?”

Stanley kept his head inclined as he drove ahead. His lips were mumbling as he repeated the question and made a calculation. In the back seat, Cranston’s lips were wearing a smile as the orbs above them viewed the chauffeur’s difficulty. Stanley raised one hand to scratch the back of his head, behind his chauffeur’s cap. Then came his reply.

“It’s more than a million, sir,” he said, as he tilted his mouth toward the speaking tube. “Five times two hundred and fifty thousand dollars — it’s a million and a quarter, sir.”

“Thank you, Stanley.”

Lamont Cranston’s lips were still smiling as his hand dropped the speaking tube. His little jest with Stanley was but the expression of a thought that he had answered automatically while talking with Joe Cardona.

In his interview with Mark Tyrell, The Shadow had learned that the schemer’s goal was a million dollars. He knew that Tyrell was too crafty a man to have misstated the figure. He knew also that Tyrell was wise enough to know the exact value of the prizes which he had expected to gain.

Why five thefts when four had been sufficient? Why was another crime still on the calendar? Mark Tyrell knew the answer. So did The Shadow.

A soft laugh came from the lips of Lamont Cranston. Shuddering tones, held to a whisper, died away without reaching Stanley’s ears. That mockery was a burst of knowing mirth. It was the laugh of The Shadow!