Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER VI THE FIRST CRIME

IT was half past nine. Guests were assembled in the spacious living room of Sebastian Dutton’s uptown home. Glasses were clinking as liveried servants passed among the throng. Men in evening clothes were talking with ladies garbed in decollete gowns. The party, despite Mark Tyrell’s contrary belief, was proving a convivial one.

Tyrell had arrived; with him was an attractive blonde gowned in turquoise blue. This was Doris Munson, former debutante, a girl of twenty. Most of the other women were older, for Sebastian Dutton had invited persons of his own age to the soiree. The men who glanced in Doris Munson’s direction immediately classed her as the most attractive lady present.

Sebastian Dutton, a pleasant-faced man of fifty, was standing in a corner with his wife beside him. Mrs. Dutton was a smiling, bejeweled dowager who beamed and nodded at everything her husband said.

“So you are displaying the Sicilian tapestry?” a gray-haired man was inquiring. “Well, that alone is well worth this visit, Dutton.”

“It should be, Bexler,” returned Dutton. “I’ll warrant that you have nothing like it in your collection.”

“Granted,” returned Bexler.

“Nor you, Brockthorpe,” added Dutton, turning to a tall, heavy-browed individual who stood close by. “Not even your celebrated golden screens can match my tapestry.”

“That is a matter of opinion, Dutton,” returned Brockthorpe, in a rumbling voice. “My Chinese screens are unique. The two of them form a perfect pair. As for Bexler, the Persian throne that he possesses is a treasure unmatched in all the world. If he does not choose to boast of it, I am ready to do so for him.”

“I have never seen the throne, Bexler,” remarked Dutton, turning to the gray-haired man. “I hope that some time you may grant us the treat of viewing it.”

“Not I,” laughed Bexler. “You and Brockthorpe can display your prized possessions. My throne will remain where it belongs — in the big vault at my home. I prefer to keep my treasure guarded.”

“Like Ferrell Gault,” nodded Dutton. “That emerald Buddha of his is glistening away inside of steel walls. Where is Gault, by the way?”

“Out of town,” informed Brockthorpe. “As for the Buddha. I understand he is preparing a shrine for it in his apartment. He is copying our plan, Dutton, of placing a rare treasure in a suitable spot where his friends can see it.”

DORIS MUNSON was listening intently. She turned to Mark Tyrell with an inquiring lift of her eyebrows. Tyrell replied in an undertone.

“These collectors are a clique,” he explained. “Sebastian Dutton boasts of his Sicilian tapestry. Rudolph Brockthorpe becomes boring when he talks about his golden screens. Ferrell Gault owns a Buddha that glitters with emeralds. As for Hubert Bexler, the gray-haired man, he has some sort of a throne that belonged to a boy emperor in Persia.”

“How interesting!” exclaimed Doris. “I knew of Mr. Dutton’s tapestry, although I have never seen it. Are these the only collectors in the group?”

“There are several others,” responded Tyrell, in a bored tone. “One chap, Powers Jordan, has some sort of a diamond tiara. I think he is also out of town—”

Tyrell paused. Another guest had joined the group. A tall, hawkfaced man with keen eyes, this individual captured Tyrell’s immediate attention.

“Good evening, Cranston!” Sebastian Dutton was extending an eager hand. “A rare pleasure to have you with us! We were just matching the merits of our treasures. What have you to offer?”

“No treasures,” returned Cranston, quietly. “I have curios and trophies; but no items of singular value. I am looking forward to a glimpse of your famous tapestry, Dutton.”

“Lamont Cranston!” murmured Tyrell, as he stared toward the newcomer.

“Lamont Cranston?” whispered Doris. “Is he the famous globetrotter?”

“Yes,” replied Tyrell.

“I should like to meet him,” said the girl. “He looks like an interesting person. Why are you staring so oddly, Mark?”

“He reminds me of some one,” mumbled Tyrell. “Was I staring? Quite impolite. So you would like to meet Lamont Cranston” — the schemer smiled as he faced Doris — “very well, you shall. Mrs. Dutton will introduce you.”

“Don’t be jealous, Mark—”

“I’m not jealous. Remember what I told you over the telephone? I should like you to meet men other than myself. Cranston, for instance. He is a man who has traveled everywhere. Why not make his acquaintance?”

“I shall, since you insist,” pouted Doris. “I shall have Mrs. Dutton introduce me to him. I should like to hear his comments on the famous tapestry.”

“An excellent idea,” decided Tyrell, in a sarcastic tone. “Go right ahead, little girl. But remember, you’re a debutante no longer. Pretty flowers wilt when summer passes.”

Placing a cigarette to his lips, Tyrell strolled away. He smiled as soon as his back was turned. He knew Doris Munson’s childish nature. He had learned long ago that the girl was in love with him. To Doris, a man’s jealousy meant love reciprocated. Tyrell knew that she would do exactly as she had said; that for the remainder of this evening she would seek to annoy him by showing interest in Lamont Cranston.

That was to Mark Tyrell’s liking. For in his study of Cranston’s steady features, Tyrell had made a prompt discovery. To him, that aquiline visage was a mask. It might well have been the blackness created by the overhanging brim of a slouch hat. For Tyrell had recognized the eyes that burned from Cranston’s countenance. They were the eyes of The Shadow!

Tyrell had expected to find The Shadow on his trail. He was sure that the master of disguise would choose some identity that would enable him to appear wherever Tyrell might be. He did not believe that this guest was actually Lamont Cranston. Having viewed The Shadow as himself, Tyrell decided that the mysterious being had simply made himself up to look like the famous globetrotter.

What could The Shadow do to frustrate crime to-night? Tyrell smiled coldly. He had prepared for The Shadow’s appearance here. He was determined to go through with his threat should The Shadow try to prevent the planned theft of the Sicilian tapestry. But at the same time, the schemer was anxious to avoid the encounter. Through Doris Munson, he felt that he might do so.

A servant approached with a tray. Tyrell took a glass and raised it to his lips. He spoke in a low tone that none but the servant heard.

“All set, Chopper?”

“Yeah.”

“Gat ready?”

“Right.”

“Muff all set?”

“Yeah.”

Tyrell nodded. He finished his drink and placed the empty glass upon the tray. The servant walked away and Tyrell smiled. This was “Chopper” Hoban: the man looked well in livery. The mention of a gat had been a precaution on Tyrell’s part. Guns were not to be in the proceedings unless he called for them. With The Shadow here, he might find it necessary to do so.

TYRELL strolled about, chatting with other guests. Fifteen minutes passed; when Tyrell again approached the group of boastful collectors; he noted that Lamont Cranston was gone. Looking about, he spied the globetrotter talking with Doris Munson. The two were engaged in earnest conversation. Tyrell smiled.

“As for the tapestry—”

Tyrell heard Rudolph Brockthorpe speaking. He also caught the interruption that came from Sebastian Dutton.

“I shall tell all my guests about it,” the host returned. “Every one is here; there is no need of further delay. Come, every one!”

The last sentence was uttered loudly, above the buzz of conversation. All eyes swung toward Dutton. The wealthy collector turned toward a door at the end of the room and waved for his guests to follow.

Dutton led the way into a broad but gloomy hall. As the twenty-odd guests gathered about in a semicircle, the host beckoned to his beaming wife. She joined him by a double doorway. Dutton, speaking in the manner of a lecturer, pointed to the barriers.

“These are sliding doors,” he informed. “You will notice that they have a large combination lock. I, alone, know the letters that open it. There are two other locks, also; for them, I use keys.”

So speaking, Dutton turned toward the doors and worked with the locks. No one could observe his operation. The fastenings yielded; at Dutton’s order, two servants slid back the doors. Dutton pressed a switch at the wall. A buzz of admiration came from the observers.

The pressing of the switch had focused a spotlight on the further wall of the inside room. There, hanging in the daylike glare, was a gorgeous hanging. Its weaving, glistening with golden thread, portrayed paneled scenes of ships and armored knights.

“This room is windowless,” remarked Dutton, as he stepped through the doorway. “Its doors are impregnable. Of course, they might be chopped to pieces, but people in the house would hear such operations. So much for the protection of my treasure. Let me speak of the tapestry itself.

“It is woven of silk; it dates from the fourteenth century. It is comparatively light in weight and texture; one might consider it an embroidery, rather than an actual tapestry, although it belongs to the latter class. The scenes which it portrays are taken from the story of Tristram and Isolde.

“Here, for instance, is the Morold come to Cornwall with forty galleys; here, the ambassadors visiting King Mark. Singularly, though the story comes from English legend, the inscriptions are in Sicilian dialect.”

“What is the value of the tapestry?” inquired some one.

“Conservatively,” returned Dutton, “two hundred thousand dollars. That is here in America. It might bring more from a European collector. In fact, I have received definite offers from Italy. The tapestry, however, is not for sale.

“If you will step inside — three or four at a time — I shall permit you to examine the texture of the tapestry and to view it at closer range.”

Groups of guests came forward. As they completed their inspection, Dutton ushered them back to the hall. Among the last half dozen were Lamont Cranston and Doris Munson. Cranston was nodding as they turned away. He apparently did not observe the approach of Mark Tyrell, who was with the final group.

The guests, as they examined the tapestry, stood aside, to avoid the spotlight. The edges and corners of the embroidered decoration were just outside the range of light. Tyrell performed a simple action which others had done before him. He lifted a corner of the tapestry. As he released it, the cloth dropped to its former position.

Sebastian Dutton saw the action. He thought nothing of it, for it appeared to be a natural procedure. In fact, when Tyrell strolled across in front of the spotlight and happened to lift the other corner of the tapestry, Dutton took the action as a mere repetition.

THE final guests were leaving; all but Rudolph Brockthorpe and Hubert Bexler. These two collectors were talking with Sebastian Dutton. Tyrell lingered, listening.

“The tapestry is well preserved,” said Bexler. “But is it wise to have it hanging on the wall? The upper border might be damaged.”

“The weight is not too great,” explained Dutton. “I have a special type of fastening that will not injure the border. Even a pull would not damage the tapestry. It would release easily if one gave it a slight tug.”

The three men were turning toward the doorway. Tyrell smiled suavely as he joined them. He walked through the broad portal with Brockthorpe and Bexler. He turned as he reached the hallway.

The glow of the spotlight was full upon the tapestry. Yet no one — not even Tyrell — could note the corners nor the bottom border. There was reason for Tyrell’s smile. On each bottom corner of the tapestry, Tyrell had attached a blackened fish hook. Between the two ran a length of fine wire, also blackened. These were totally invisible.

People were watching Dutton at the light switch. They did not see Tyrell’s hand relax as something dropped unnoticed to the hall floor. Dutton, with a final look toward his precious tapestry, gave pressure to the light switch. The glow faded. Dutton stepped into the hall. Servants closed the sliding doors.

Tyrell had strolled away before Dutton had finished the locking of the door. Entering the living room, the scheming crook encountered Lamont Cranston, standing beside Doris Munson. He noted that Cranston’s eyes were toward the hallway where Dutton was stooped before the closed doors. Tyrell smiled as he walked by.

Half an hour passed. The party increased in its conviviality. Dutton and his cronies were engaged in private conversation while other guests drifted here and there, talking to each other. Tyrell noted Lamont Cranston and Doris Munson walking out through a door to an enclosed veranda. This was his final cue.

Chopper was passing with an empty tray. Tyrell hissed a low command in the fake servant’s ear. Chopper continued on; Tyrell found a chance to stroll through the door that led into the hall outside the tapestry room.

Alone in the gloomy passage, Tyrell worked quickly. Dropping to his knees in front of the sliding doors, he found the object that he wanted; the end of a strong fish line. He gave a tug. There was a slight resistance at the other end. Then, like an angler making a haul, Tyrell pulled in his catch.

As he drew upon the cord, Dutton’s Sicilian tapestry came sliding through the crack beneath the sliding doors. Tyrell, rising, gripped the border as it came in view. With a backward step, he whisked his valuable prize out into the hallway.

Soft footsteps came in his direction as Tyrell folded the tapestry. Chopper had arrived; the false servant held a small bag open in readiness. Tyrell shoved the tapestry into the container. Chopper whispered quick information.

“I’m pitchin’ it out the pantry window,” he stated. “Slug’s there, ready to grab it. Muff’s stickin’ out in the kitchen, kiddin’ the help. Nobody’ll see me.”

Tyrell nodded. Chopper, the tapestry inside the bag, turned toward his destination. Tyrell strolled back through the door into the living room. He was lighting a cigarette when Chopper reappeared, carrying another loaded tray. Tyrell helped himself to a glass. As he drank, he heard Rudolph Brockthorpe speak to Sebastian Dutton.

“Your room is as strong as mine,” Brockthorpe was saying. “Triple locked; windowless—”

“But not as strong as a vault,” interposed Hubert Bexler.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Dutton. “Come out in the hallway, gentlemen. Take a look at those locks. I tried a locksmith on them. He was stumped.”

Tyrell strolled on toward the veranda. At the door, he encountered Lamont Cranston. The globetrotter stopped to put a question:

“Where is Mr. Dutton?”

“I think he went into the hallway,” replied Tyrell, in a casual tone. “Out to show some friends the locks on his tapestry room.”

“Thank you,” returned Cranston. “I am anxious to talk to him.”

Tyrell caught the glint of burning eyes; nevertheless, he wore a triumphant smile as he stepped to the veranda to look for Doris Munson. His task was done. The tapestry was gone. Not even The Shadow could prevent the theft that was already accomplished.

HALF an hour later, Mark Tyrell and Doris Munson paid their respects to host and hostess as they made their departure. As he shook hands with Sebastian Dutton, Tyrell noted Lamont Cranston chatting with Rudolph Brockthorpe and Hubert Bexler. Tyrell knew that the trip to the hallway outside the tapestry room had revealed nothing except the fact that the locks were as strong as ever.

Doris was silent as they rode away in a taxicab. The girl was annoyed by Tyrell’s lack of jealousy. She seemed to feel that he should be angry because she had talked so long with Cranston. Tyrell, however, was unconcerned.

After he had ushered Doris up to her apartment, the clever schemer returned to the street and hailed another cab. He ordered the driver to take him to the Esplanade. Tyrell was smiling suavely as he rode toward his abode. His first crime had been accomplished with surprising ease. Tyrell had expected that result. There was another reason for his expression of triumph. The schemer was positive that he had achieved his clever theft almost before the eyes of The Shadow!