Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER XII THE SHADOW EXPLAINS

“You wanted the diamond tiara. Take it.”

The words came from lips that looked like those of Powers Jordan. They were spoken in the drawl that Jordan customarily used. But Mark Tyrell knew the true author of the speech; he stood nonplused as he faced The Shadow.

Long hands were resting in the pockets of Jordan’s smoking jacket. Tyrell sensed that fingers were gripping the handle of an automatic. His own arms seemed paralyzed. Mark Tyrell prided himself upon his quickness with a gun; he had a revolver ready in his pocket. But he knew that a move to draw a weapon would bring disaster.

Staring viciously at the personage before him; maddened despite the dread that gripped him, Mark Tyrell managed to find recourse in words. He knew that the tiara was safe from capture. That was provoking enough. But he was furious to find that all his stolen prizes had been thus wrested from his grasp.

“What is this?” questioned Tyrell, in blurting fashion. “How — how did you gain those objects that I — that I—”

“That you stole?” interposed The Shadow, in Jordan’s drawl. “Quite simply, Tyrell. I took them before you stole them.”

“You mean that I—”

“You told me too much during our first interview. You gave me a satisfactory understanding of the crimes that you intended to commit. You spoke too long before your actions. You gave me the time that I required.

“In this room, you see the genuine treasures that you sought. None of them were ever in your possession. I was the one who took the actual articles. You still hold the imitations which you managed to purloin.”

Tyrell blinked. He began to understand. He realized that Foon Koo’s house had not been entered by The Shadow. The dwarfish Chinaman was still guarding a hidden lair. Tyrell could see why The Shadow had played so passive a part during the four robberies.

“You told me,” resumed The Shadow, still using Jordan’s tone, “that you intended to steal five objects — each the prize of an otherwise mediocre collection. I, myself, have a penchant for art treasures. I knew of the clique composed by Dutton, Brockthorpe and three others.

“In fact, I had excellent descriptions of the very objects that you sought. Two items — the Sicilian tapestry and the pair of golden screens — had already been copied. I obtained excellent imitations. The reproduction of the tapestry cost me but a few hundred dollars. The screens that I obtained were made of brass.

“As for the jeweled Buddha, I had an iron casting plated with gold. Instead of emeralds, I used false gems of special glass — formed from pure powdered quartz. Copper oxide and chromium oxide produced the proper color. The false emeralds lacked the luster of the genuine, I must admit; but they managed to pass inspection, even though Ferrell Gault could not understand why they failed to give their famous glow.

“Hubert Bexler’s famous Persian throne was reconstructed from an excellent photograph which was fortunately in color. Thus its tinted inlays were well produced by the craftsmen to whom I gave the task. The throne was always kept in Bexler’s vault. Hence it did not receive the critical examination that was given to the other objects.”

“Then you were the real thief!” fumed Tyrell. “You stole the treasures that I sought. You, The Shadow, are a crook—”

“I merely dealt in crime prevention,” came the drawling interruption from this personage who had masked himself as Powers Jordan. “I entered Dutton’s tapestry room a few nights before the robbery which you planned. His locks were quite easily opened. I substituted the false tapestry for the genuine.

“Brockthorpe’s strongroom might have given me trouble. I visited it in advance, and learned, fortunately, that Brockthorpe did not have the alarm set on the door. I worked the locks and entered. How do you suppose I substituted the screens, Tyrell?”

“I have no idea,” retorted the smooth crook, sullenly.

“I anticipated your method.” The Shadow paused to chuckle in a manner that befitted Powers Jordan. “I opened the outer shutter of the window — after turning off the alarm — and passed the screens out through the bars, sliding them end foremost. The false screens were pushed in to me. I set them up instead of the genuine.”

“As for the jeweled Buddha and the Persian throne; those substitutions depended simply upon opening the respective vaults in which they were contained. Ferrell Gault was out of town. Hubert Bexler’s house was practically unguarded.

“The vaults were troublesome. Bexler’s, in particular, required a considerable length of time to open. I doubt that the most expert safe cracker in the underworld could have completed the job in less than an hour. However, I succeeded easily on both occasions.”

“You brought your swag here?” demanded Tyrell.

“Not until last night,” came The Shadow’s feigned drawl. “You see, Tyrell, I am not actually Powers Jordan. You duped the real Jordan very well. I found that out when I came to see him yesterday afternoon — I came here as an old friend.”

Tyrell remembered that Jordan had mentioned Lamont Cranston as an acquaintance whom he had not seen for many months. The truth began to dawn upon the crook.

“Powers Jordan,” resumed The Shadow, “became ill after smoking a cigarette. That was an idea of yours, Tyrell; one that I appropriated for the occasion. I summoned a physician — a specialist — who was awaiting my call. When Jordan recuperated, the doctor ordered him to leave immediately for Atlantic City. Jordan agreed that the sea air would be good for him.

“Jordan was worried about something. So he confided in me. He showed me where his tiara was hidden and asked if I would guard it during his absence. Of course, I consented. Since I was to be here, I decided to bring in the treasures that were in my keeping. I entertained myself by arranging them as a setting for the tiara.

“Then, as an afterthought, I decided that since I occupied Jordan’s apartment, I might as well adopt his personality during his absence. Thus, Tyrell, I was able to receive you this evening.”

A mockery had come into the drawling tone. Mark Tyrell, as he tightened and unclenched his fists, came to the full realization of The Shadow’s mastery. He knew that The Shadow had definitely avoided actual encounter in order to offset Tyrell’s threat of death to innocent parties.

That danger was past. The Shadow had played a deceptive waiting game. Powers Jordan was safely out of town. An attack upon The Shadow — even with all these treasures at stake — would be a fruitless effort. One man, armed and prepared to resist an invasion, could hold off Tyrell’s entire crew of mobsters long enough for the police to arrive on the scene. This apartment house was located too near Times Square. Moreover, Mark Tyrell knew that the protector of the swag would be no ordinary fighter. Reclaimed wealth was under the guardianship of The Shadow!

“THESE treasures,” came The Shadow’s announcement, “will be restored to their rightful owners. Those men will be warned and protected against new attacks. Your crimes, Tyrell, have proven fruitless.

“You are fortunate in one respect. I have followed your game. I have seen you avoid the one crime that might have forced me to become your executioner: namely, murder.”

Mark Tyrell quailed. Did The Shadow know that he had planned the murder of Powers Jordan? Tyrell suspected it. The Shadow knew the situation that existed here. Probably, he had divined that Jordan’s death would be essential to the culmination of the final robbery.

“My policy toward criminals” — The Shadow’s tone had suddenly become the sinister whisper that all crooks feared — “is one that yields no mercy. You, Mark Tyrell, are a thief. Yet you have accomplished nothing. You have been thwarted.”

“I am beaten,” acknowledged Tyrell, in a gasping, pleading tone. “I’ve got nothing—”

“You have henchmen,” warned The Shadow. “You have accomplices. I know their identities. If they persist in crime, I shall deal with them as they deserve.”

“I’m through,” admitted Tyrell. “I’ve paid my associates for what they’ve done. I owe them nothing. I’m not only licked; I know that I was wrong.”

There was pleading in the crook’s tone; yet Tyrell maintained an earnest bearing as he raised his eyes to face The Shadow’s gaze. Realization of crime’s hopeless hazards had apparently gripped Mark Tyrell.

The Shadow stood silent. The glow faded slightly from his eyes. His gestures, his leisurely manners — all became those of Powers Jordan, the man whose part he was playing. With his right hand, The Shadow gave a slight wave toward the door.

Faltering, with head half-bowed, Mark Tyrell walked from the room. The Shadow followed. Tyrell found his hat and coat. He donned them while The Shadow spoke in the easy drawl of Powers Jordan.

“Honest opportunity lies before you, Tyrell,” he suggested. “Why not take it? You may find that it will pay.”

“I’ll try it,” nodded Tyrell.

“In that case,” came the easy drawl, “the past will be forgotten. Take a friend’s suggestion, Tyrell. Avoid crime in the future. If you do not—”

The last sentence came in another tone. The contrast was electric. The Shadow had replaced Jordan’s drawl with a sinister whisper that made Tyrell quake.

“If you do not—”

The hissed words seemed to echo in Tyrell’s startled ears as the beaten schemer stepped into the hall. Tyrell did not pause. He walked weakly toward the stairs; as he reached them, a new sound brought a quiver to his frame.

This was the whispered shudder of an eerie laugh that Mark Tyrell had heard before. It was the final warning of The Shadow. Weird reverberations persisted as Tyrell descended the stairs. His face ashen, his steps those of a man in a trance, Tyrell crossed the lobby and reached the street.

Mechanically, he called a cab. He gasped an order to the driver, telling the man to take him to the Esplanade. He sank back in the cushions and sat staring from the window as the cab rolled along.

The Shadow had explained. The Shadow had shown mercy. The Shadow had warned. Mark Tyrell had left his presence in penitent fashion. The schemer had maintained his hangdog, beaten bearing.

BUT when he entered his apartment at the Esplanade, the schemer no longer wore a pitiful expression. His suavity had returned. His face was flushed with an evil glow; his eyes were hard and wicked.

Ordering Wellington outside, Tyrell picked up the telephone. He dialed a number; his voice rasped as he spoke across the wire.

“That you, Slug?” queried Tyrell. “This is Tyrell… No, the game’s off for to-night… I’ll tell you more later… I’ve got another job coming… Yes, stick with Pug at the Morocco until you hear from me.”

As he hung up the receiver, Mark Tyrell blurted an evil laugh. He was pleased as he faced his reflection in the mirror. Beaten, he had managed to extricate himself from The Shadow’s toils.

Mark Tyrell felt that he had tricked The Shadow. His pretended penitence had been a clever ruse. He had no intention of heeding The Shadow’s warning. So far as crime was concerned, Mark Tyrell was ready to make it pay.

Twice had Mark Tyrell discoursed with The Shadow. On both occasions, the smooth crook had come out second best. The Shadow had shown leniency at each meeting. Mark Tyrell was looking forward to a third event.

He knew that he could expect no quarter. He did not seem perturbed. Fiendish at heart, despite his cleverness in pretending that he had reformed, Tyrell had gained a singular wish.

Crime was to be his watchword. It would be his answer to The Shadow’s warning. It would bring him — so Tyrell hoped — to the culmination of the desire that now gripped his entire being. Mark Tyrell wanted what other crooks avoided: the chance to meet The Shadow face to face, on even terms.

Mortal combat with The Shadow! That was what Tyrell sought. Through new and daring crime, he would find the way to his dangerous goal!