Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER IX THE THIRD CRIME

“HELLO, Vincent. Glad to see you, old chap. Wellington, take Mr. Vincent’s hat and coat.”

The speaker was Mark Tyrell. He was receiving Harry Vincent as a guest in his apartment at the Esplanade. It was five nights after the theft at Rudolph Brockthorpe’s.

The two men were in Tyrell’s dressing room. Wellington had closed the door. Away from listening ears — Tyrell told Wellington but little of his plans — the scheming crook was about to give instructions for this night.

“Two days ago,” stated Tyrell to Harry, “you received an invitation to a reception at Ferrell Gault’s. I called you up and told you to accept it. Your attire” — Harry was dressed in evening clothes — “indicates that you are going there. Am I correct?”

“Certainly,” replied Harry, with a smile.

“I arranged the invitation,” resumed Tyrell. “I also received one of my own. I intended to go to Gault’s, accompanied by Doris Munson. I have, however, changed my plans.”

“How does that happen?”

“Because,” declared Tyrell, “everything has been arranged. I merely wanted to be at Gault’s to watch for any trouble. I also wanted to be there to keep my eye on a certain person who was present at Brockthorpe’s. I refer to a man named Lamont Cranston.”

“I remember him,” nodded Harry.

“Doris Munson,” continued Tyrell, “has become quite friendly with Lamont Cranston. He is a wise bird, Cranston; I have found Miss Munson quite useful in diverting his attention. She has unwittingly worked with my game. To-night, she will be at her best.”

“How so?”

“Doris is anxious to make me jealous. So instead of going to Gault’s to-night, she has managed to make a date with Cranston. They are going to the theater.”

“Which eliminates Cranston.”

“Exactly. It also obviates the necessity of my being at Gault’s. Nevertheless, I need a representative. I want a full report on what happens. You, Vincent, are appointed.”

Tyrell arose as he spoke. He conducted Harry to the living room. Wellington brought Harry’s cape and silk hat. He also produced Tyrell’s overcoat and derby.

“I am going to my club,” remarked Tyrell. “We can travel that far together, Vincent.”

When the two men reached the street, they took a taxi. Tyrell left the cab at his club. Harry ordered the driver to take him to Seventy-second Street and Columbus Avenue, which was the neighborhood of Ferrell Gault’s apartment. When he reached his destination, Harry alighted and entered a drug store. He stepped toward a telephone booth.

IT was Harry’s intention to put through a call to Burbank, The Shadow’s contact agent. The fact that robbery was due at Gault’s was sufficient in itself; Harry, however, had other information. Tyrell’s reference to Lamont Cranston was something that Burbank should know.

Harry Vincent had reasons to believe that The Shadow sometimes guised himself as the globetrotting millionaire. Tyrell evidently suspected Cranston as an enemy. If Burbank could reach The Shadow before the supposed Lamont Cranston kept his appointment with Doris Munson, matters might take a different turn to-night.

The telephone booths were by the window. The lights of the drug store threw radiance to the sidewalk. It was through that glow that Harry Vincent made a chance discovery. He saw a man outside the window by the booths. He recognized the ugly features of Pug Halfin.

Harry decided not to make his call to Burbank. He realized that Pug might be here to watch his actions. Ignoring the telephone booth, Harry went to the cigar counter and purchased a pack of cigarettes. He strolled from the store.

As he headed in the direction of Gault’s apartment house, Harry gained the distinct impression that he was being followed. This persisted until he reached the apartment building itself. Harry knew that Pug, versed in the tricks of the underworld, could well have trailed him. So he made no attempt to use a telephone in the lobby. He rode directly to the fourth floor, where Ferrell Gault’s apartment was located.

Harry was right in his assumption that Pug was on his trail. The ugly-faced mobleader had followed Harry’s pace all the way from the drug store. But the trailing ceased when Harry reached the apartment house. Taking a dark alleyway at the side of the building, Pug gained an obscure entrance and took a flight of steps down to the basement.

Here he grinned as he discovered the entrance to a freight elevator. The lift was used only for carrying furniture and other bulky loads. Its entrance was obscure; no operator was on duty. Pug entered the elevator and ran it up to the fourth floor.

Here, again, he found an obscure entrance. He moved around a corner of a passage and tapped softly at the first door on the left. The door opened. Pug stepped into a room that had only a single light, covered by a handkerchief. He nodded in greeting to two rowdies who were standing in the empty living room.

“Is he in there?” questioned Pug, nudging his thumb toward an inner door.

“Yeah,” grunted a mobster.

Pug kept on and entered the empty bedroom of the little suite. The door, as he opened it, revealed a crouched figure near a closet door. Pug caught a glimpse of a yellow face and beady eyes. He closed the door from the living room. He was in total darkness; his companion was the same distorted creature that Chopper Hoban had released from the chair at Rudolph Brockthorpe’s!

“Hello, Foon Koo,” whispered Pug. “Everything all ready?”

“Not yet,” hissed the bent Chinaman. “Foon Koo, he listen. Foon Koo will hear.”

“The wall’s too thick,” insisted Pug, in a cautious tone.

“Not for Foon Koo,” replied the voice of the Chinaman. “When workmen fixee room for Mr. Gault, they bring in Foon Koo to makee the panel.”

“I know,” whispered Pug. “Those workmen were phonies that Slug Bracken and I put on the job. They smuggled you in an’ out in a box.”

“So Foon Koo could makee good trick,” agreed the Chinaman. “Goodee job I do. The panel, he will workee once. Not workee twice. Poof! No goodee after the one time.”

“But you can hear through it?”

“Yes. Foon Koo hear much. Foon Koo know when Buddha be where he wants it. Foon Koo know when peoples go. Foon Koo hear lightee go clickee.”

“It’s your job, Foon Koo. I’m here to help you. Where do we wait — in the closet?”

“Yes.”

WHILE the whispered conversation was passing between the ugly-faced mobleader and the dwarfish Chinaman, other events were occurring on the opposite side of the very wall where the evil workers lingered. A group was assembled in a paneled room. The guests of Ferrell Gault were being entertained in the sumptuous apartment of a millionaire collector.

Among those present were Sebastian Dutton and Rudolph Brockthorpe. The two — gloomy since their respective robberies — formed a contrast to Ferrell Gault. A fat man of forty-five, Gault was a jolly individual who spoke with a tendency toward English accent.

“Glad to see you here to-night,” Gault was saying. “Jove! It’s a gala occasion. Well, here you see the shrine room for the jeweled Buddha. That niche with the gold fresco work is a duplicate of the spot the statue used to occupy in a Japanese temple.

“I had this room fitted up while I was out of town. I intended to keep Gautama Siddhartha — that was Buddha’s real name, you know — on regular display. But my friends” — he paused to indicate Dutton and Brockthorpe — “have advised me against it. So you’ll see my Buddha for about half an hour; then back he goes, into the vault.”

Two persons had entered the room. One was Harry Vincent; the other, Joe Cardona. Rudolph Brockthorpe stepped forward to introduce the arrivals to Ferrell Gault. The millionaire shook hands with Harry; then turned to Cardona.

“We’ve been waiting for you, old chap,” said Gault, to the detective. “The Buddha’s under lock and key. Brockthorpe told me you would he here.”

“You intend to show the statue in this roost?” inquired Cardona.

“Yes,” responded Gault. “In that niche on the other side of the room. There are no windows in this place—”

“There were none in my tapestry room,” interposed Dutton.

“Keep the Buddha in your vault,” advised Brockthorpe. “Show it; put it back again.”

“All right,” agreed Gault. “Jove! You chaps are squeamish. But I suppose you have a right to be. Come along, Mr. Cardona. The vault is in my study.”

The two men departed. Harry Vincent, standing alone, heard Brockthorpe speak to Dutton.

“Gault’s vault is a modern one,” said the dark-browed than. “As good as Hubert Bexler’s.”

“Where is Bexler to-night?” inquired Dutton. “I thought that he was coming here.”

“He intended to join us. He called me up to say that he could not come, due to unexpected guests.”

“Do you think that he is worrying about his Persian throne?”

“I don’t know. He told me that he asked Cardona to come down there and take a look at his vault. He wants to be sure that it is safe. Perhaps the detective is going there after he leaves here.”

Ferrell Gault was returning. In his arms, the millionaire carried a heavy statuette, some two feet in height. Its golden surface glistened in Gault’s arms. Crossing the room, Gault set the statue in the paneled niche. Gasps of amazement came from the guests as the millionaire stepped aside.

The Buddha was evidently a hollow casting grade of pure gold. But the metal represented no more than a fraction of its value.

From the forehead glistened a perfect emerald. This green gem was matched by four similar stones: two in the palms of the figure’s hands, one on the sole of each foot. Representing five points of Buddha, the jewels caught the light and produced a resplendent glow.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed some one.

“No, no,” objected Gault. He was standing back from the Buddha, with Cardona close beside him. “The lights are all wrong. They do not show the sparkle of the emeralds.”

Gault frowned as he looked around the room. He ordered a solemn-faced servant to turn out certain clusters. Still, he was not satisfied.

“Close the door,” ordered the millionaire.

The injunction was obeyed. Gault went to the light switches himself. He clicked one; then another; he continued in rapid succession. Each new change seemed as unsatisfactory as the one before.

“No light reaches the niche property,” decided Gault, in a disappointed tone. “The emeralds sparkle; but they do not create the glow. Bah! In this illumination they show no better than green glass.

“I must arrange lights within the niche itself. Jove! This is disappointing! Even darkness will prove better. Stand where you are, every one, while I turn out the lights. As your eyes become accustomed to the darkness, you will see a green glow creep from the emeralds. I promise you it will appear uncanny!”

“One moment, Mr. Gault—”

The objection came from Joe Cardona. Gault gestured impatiently for the detective to stand aside. Cardona subsided. Gault raised his hand for silence. Absolute hush fell over the throng. Gault turned off the final light switch. People waited, silent, in pitch blackness.

WHILE stillness reigned in Ferrell Gault’s paneled room, whisperings began on the other side of the wall. Foon Koo, crouched in the closet of the empty apartment, was talking to Pug Halfin.

“Foon Koo has heard,” hissed the Chinaman. “Lightee, they have all gone out. Foon Koo is ready. Makee no noise though. People, maybe, have not all goee.”

“Better wait, Foon Koo—”

“Lightee gonee out. Foon Koo ready.”

“All right.”

Pug stood silent. He heard no sound, but he felt a slight draught as Foon Koo noiselessly opened a secret trap in the wall. Pug could sense that the Chinaman’s clawlike hands were reaching through the opening. Foon Koo had spidery legs; but his arms possessed immense strength.

Not a sound occurred; yet ten seconds later, Pug felt something press against his chest. He gripped the object. He found it a heavy mass of metal. He felt Foon Koo’s claws slide along his hands. Pug gripped his burden and waited.

Another feeble puff of wind. The Chinaman had closed the trap. Yet Foon Koo still worked for twenty seconds longer. The Chinaman, versed in the amazing craftsmanship of his native land, was springing secret bolts to render the movable panel useless in the future. Yet as he worked, Foon Koo made no noise.

A nudge in the darkness. Pug Halfin stepped from the closet, carrying his burden. He felt Foon Koo padding along beside him. They opened the door and stepped into the dim, empty living room. The waiting mobsters stared. Pug, a grin on his face, stretched his arms forward.

“There it is, boys!” he whispered.

In his hands, Pug was holding the golden Buddha with its five green gems glimmering from head, hands and feet. The mobleader clutched the idol with his arms and moved to a corner of the room where an open box stood.

Foon Koo padded ahead. The Chinaman popped into the box; crouching, he held up his arms and leered in evil fashion as he received the Buddha from Pug Halfin. Foon Koo dropped out of sight with his burden. Pug placed the cover on the box. He jammed four clamps into place.

“Down the freight elevator,” he ordered, turning to his men. “Shove the box in the touring car. I’ll drive it away. Then you guys can scram.”

The mobsters nodded. As Pug led the way, they hoisted the box and started toward the door to the passage. Less than three minutes had elapsed since Ferrell Gault had turned out the lights in his paneled room. Already the jeweled Buddha was on its way from the building!

BACK in his paneled room, Gault had begun to speak. His voice sounded annoyed as the listeners heard it in the darkness.

“Usually the glow commences after a few minutes,” the millionaire announced. “The niche must be causing the same trouble it did in the light.”

“Hardly, Gault,” came Brockthorpe’s voice. “Its position should make no difference in the darkness.”

“Perhaps you need a trifling light,” suggested Dutton. “Gems are not apt to glow in absolute blackness.”

“Wait a few minutes longer,” returned Gault, curtly.

People were shifting restlessly. Darkness was appalling. Subdued whispers began to pass among the guests. Some persons shifted toward the doorway. Another voice rose above the murmur.

“Quiet, every one!” Joe Cardona was growling. “Stay where you are. I don’t like this. Suppose we turn on the lights, Mr. Gault.”

“Why do you want them?” demanded the millionaire.

“I don’t like this foolishness,” retorted Cardona. “It’s dangerous. It’s too easy for some one to start trouble. Quiet, every one. Here come the lights!”

As he spoke, Cardona pushed Gault aside and pressed the light switch. As illumination filled the room, the detective came face to face with the millionaire. Indignation showed on Gault’s features; challenge on Cardona’s.

Then came excited cries that caused the two men to forget antagonism. People were gasping, pointing toward the niche in the wall. Gault and Cardona, turned to see the cause of the hubbub. They stared, as amazed as the rest.

The niche in the wall was empty. The failure of the expected green glow was explained. The golden Buddha with its precious emeralds had been purloined in the midst of darkness!

“Stay where you are!” shouted Cardona, grimly. “Watch these people, Mr. Gault! You, Mr. Dutton — you, Mr. Brockthorpe! Some one has made a getaway!”

With that, Cardona yanked open the door of the paneled room. He dashed out into the apartment. He encountered bewildered servants. In response to the detective’s questions, the attendants stated that no one had come out of the paneled room.

Cardona dashed back to the assembled throng. He stared suspiciously from guest to guest. He marched people out one by one. Aided by Ferrell Gault, he began a systematic search of the room. Cardona tapped the panels as he went along. Not one portion of the wall sounded hollow.

HARRY VINCENT, herded with others in the room outside the paneled chamber, was the most puzzled person present. To him, the theft was unexplainable. Harry had come here to-night to serve a double mission. He was the secret agent of The Shadow; he was also the appointed aid of Mark Tyrell.

He knew that robbery had been planned. But he had decided that circumstances would prevent it. Yet the crime had been accomplished with a cleverness that left him totally bewildered.

Through Harry’s confused brain drummed one final impression. It was a thought that left him worried; one that made him feel the sting of failure. Harry knew that crime had gained another victory. That one idea predominated.

Mark Tyrell had matched wits with The Shadow. Tyrell had triumphed. Another master theft had been accomplished. The Shadow had failed to prevent it.

Harry, secret agent for both, had been the logical man to turn the balance from Tyrell to The Shadow. Yet Harry had failed. Theft in the dark had left The Shadow’s agent in total ignorance of how the crime had been accomplished.

Mark Tyrell had performed three master strokes of crime. Harry had heard of the first; he had spotted the method of the second; he had completely failed to trace a single feature of the third. Mark Tyrell, in Harry’s estimation, was more than a shrewd schemer. The man was a wizard.

What other tricks lay in Tyrell’s bag? How would The Shadow fare should he meet Tyrell in actual combat? Harry felt a sinking feeling. Confident though he was in The Shadow’s prowess, he feared that his weird chief had encountered the insurmountable at last.

Hunches were not frequent with Harry Vincent; when he had one, it generally proved correct. As he stood in Ferrell Gault’s living room, Harry gained a new impression — a fearful thought that he could not shake.

Looking to the future, he could picture a grim scene. Mark Tyrell and The Shadow engaged in a fierce duel — the thought was not pleasant. For Harry found himself forced to the conviction that a criminal who could produce so amazing a theft as that of the jeweled Buddha would be a terrible antagonist when it came to mortal combat!