The Chinese Disks

CHAPTER XXIII. MASTERS MEET

MORNING newspapers headlined Cardona’s triumph. The ace had recovered a million dollars’ worth of stolen gems. A man hunt was on for Diamond Bert Farwell.

Up in his suite at the Hotel Wildebrand, Gautier Ranaud was reading the story of last night’s fray. The day was dull; light was poor in the living room. The bearded man was seated by a floor lamp.

A rap at the door. Ranaud arose and answered it. He bowed to Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth; then thrust forth a hearty handshake to Joe Cardona, who was with the commissioner. A third man was present. Barth introduced him as Lamont Cranston. The bearded Frenchman faced a tall personage whose countenance seemed stern and hawklike.

“But these, M’sieu?” questioned Ranaud, waving his hand toward the hall, where half a dozen men formed a squad. “Are these detectives?”

“Yes,” replied Barth. “Close the door, Cardona; the detail can wait outside. You see, Monsieur Ranaud, we intend to give you absolute protection.”

“Ah! You have brought my diamonds?”

“As you requested. Also to complete the case. The diamonds were stolen from you in this suite. We are returning them intact.”

Barth produced the bag and placed it upon the table. Ranaud seized it and let the uncut stone trickle into his hand with the air of a child admiring shiny pebbles. Lamont Cranston leaned forward. The Frenchman stepped back as he poured the diamonds into the bag.

“Mr. Cranston is a friend of mine,” said Barth, seriously. “He is a millionaire. He wanted to see the uncut diamonds. But of course, without your permission—”

“Ah, oui, M’sieu.” Ranaud obligingly shook the diamonds into his hand and held them before Cranston’s eyes. “You wish to see them longer?”

“No,” rejoined Cranston. “I understand that these stones are to be taken to the steamship. I do not wish to cause a delay.”

“There is much time, M’sieu,” replied Ranaud. “The ship — she do not sail for two days. I send these gems to the ship. I go for a trip to Philadelphia.”

Ranaud had lowered his hand to the lamplight. Cranston examined three stones that particularly attracted his attention and replaced them carefully upon the Frenchman’s hand. At that instant, the telephone rang from the bedroom.

“I answer it.” Ranaud poured the diamonds back into the bag. He went into the other room.

“Ah, no, M’sieu,” they heard him on the wire. “I have already say that I do not wish to keep this suite. I have told the maid to wait until I have gone. Do you understand? I leave soon… Yes… Yes… I check out. That is the way I say it… Yes, I check out…”

A minute later, Ranaud reappeared, carrying a small, but heavy metal casket. He was dangling a key from a ring on his finger. With a bow, he placed the coffer in the hands of Wainwright Barth.

“I have placed the diamonds in here, M’sieu,” said Ranaud. “It is large — this box — so it can be kept safe. You have the big truck? With the armor?”

“Yes.”

“This is to go in it. To the captain of the vessel. It is to you that I trust this box, M’sieu.”

“Very well.”

BARTH nodded to Cardona and Cranston as witnesses. Joe opened the door. The detail of plain-clothes men snapped into attention.

“I shall come to the ship,” declared Ranaud, to Barth. “I shall see the captain. After that, I go to Philadelphia. To-morrow — perhaps I see you, M’sieu?”

“Certainly,” replied Barth. “You will be quite welcome at my office.”

Cardona received the box from the commissioner. Surrounded by the detail, Joe marched down the hall.

Barth and Cranston followed. Gautier Ranaud went into the bedroom. The living room remained empty.

Minutes passed.

A soft click from the door. The barrier opened. Into the gloomy living room stepped Lamont Cranston.

He closed the door softly behind him, then moved easily to the little passage. He noted that of the three doors, only one was open. That was the entrance to the front bedroom.

Gautier Ranaud was muttering to himself as he packed clothing in a heavy traveling bag. Lamont Cranston, fingers resting loosely in coat pockets, stepped into the room. His shadow fell across the white shirts in the suitcase. Ranaud looked up.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Cranston spoke these words in a steady, even tone. “You did not hear my knock when I returned. I thought that I should like to speak with you, Monsieur Ranaud.”

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “You were the gentleman who came with the commissioner. What do you wish, M’sieu?”

“To make sure that your gems are safe.”

“But they are, M’sieu! They have gone to the ship.”

“Are you sure?”

Ranaud stared. Cranston’s voice resumed.

“Diamond Bert Farwell wants those diamonds,” came the steady tone. “He is a crook who usually gains whatever he goes after.”

“But not my diamonds, M’sieu!” Ranaud spoke triumphantly. “They have been put where they are safe.”

“In the armored car? I hardly think so. I should think that you would prefer to carry them in that traveling bag.”

Ranaud blinked. For a moment, he seemed concerned. Then lips formed a smile through the heavy black beard. The squatty Frenchman chuckled.

“Ah, oui,” he laughed. “You are a friend of the commissioner, M’sieu. You are very clever, You have guessed my little joke. These New York police! Bah! I do not trust them. So I have kept the diamonds here and you have guessed it. When I reach Paree, M’sieu—”

“Paris?” came the quiet interruption. “You do not intend to go to Paris, Diamond Bert!”

Two figures stood motionless. Master of vengeance was face to face with master of crime. The Shadow, as Cranston, had penetrated Diamond Bert’s disguise. But not until this moment had the crook realized that the visage of Lamont Cranston was no more than a mask for The Shadow.

“I know you would come back.” Cranston’s lips were uttering a weird, taunting whisper that Diamond Bert recognized. “That is why I stayed close to the diamonds. Then I met you. I knew that you were not Gautier Ranaud. He is alive, I suppose, like Joland.”

“In the back room,” snarled Diamond Bert, through his false beard. “I grabbed him last night. I came back here” — the crook seemed defiantly proud — “because it was the last place they would look for me.

“I had my other bags. I checked in and came to see Ranaud. He let me in. I knocked him out and doped him. It was a cinch, this make-up. I had plenty of whiskers in my bag.”

“But your knowledge of French was limited.”

Diamond Bert snorted. He shrugged his shoulders as if in surrender to a superior foe. This was his first move; his next was to scruff the shirts that lay on top of the bag.

“Call it quits,” suggested the crook. “You’re The Shadow; you’ve licked me. Take the diamonds. They’re here. I stuck them in the bag when I came in for that box.”

“And Tatson’s jewels,” hissed The Shadow. “And Lewkesbury’s.”

“They’re yours too,” growled the crook. “Here in the bag. All yours.”

“And the men who died because of your crimes—”

Diamond Bert paused. He knew that there could be no compromise with The Shadow. But he seemed to hold to hope as he pawed another shirt aside. He stopped, his right hand still, and stared at the form before him.

“I’m giving you all the swag,” he pleaded. “Take it and call it quits. I’m playing fair. Here’s the rocks—”

The crook’s hand came up; with the motion, Diamond Bert swung back from the suitcase. Out from the clothes he was sweeping a big .45. Pulling the gun toward him, he aimed the smoke wagon toward The Shadow.

A runner can travel one yard in the tenth of a second. The Shadow’s right hand, which had edged down into his pocket, had less than ten inches to come up, In that short space, it equalled as fast a pace as any human being could make.

A pocket automatic snapped into view, in the tenth of a tenth second. Simultaneously a finger pressed the trigger and held it. Shots drilled forth with the rapidity of machine gun bullets while The Shadow’s hand moved slightly from side to side.

The Shadow had brought a stub-nosed .32 in place of his huge .45s. He had left the heavy artillery to Diamond Bert. Before the supercrook could fire his big .45, he had received the full quota of The Shadow’s weapon.

Girdled with bullets, Diamond Bert collapsed. His smoke wagon thumped the floor. Murderous to the last, treacherously trying to spring a double-cross, the killer had received no mercy from The Shadow.

One life or the other. The Shadow had won. A solemn laugh came from his immobile lips as this mighty fighter viewed the dead form of Diamond Bert Farwell. Then, pocketing his emptied automatic, The Shadow turned. Quietly, in the manner of Lamont Cranston, he strolled from the suite and closed the door behind him.

DOWN in the lobby, Commissioner Wainwright Barth was looking about for Lamont Cranston. His friend had disappeared. Suddenly the commissioner spied him. As he spoke to Cranston, Joe Cardona entered.

“The diamonds are on the armored truck,” announced Joe. “Ready to pull out—”

Joe turned as a man hastened up. It was the house dick, Lennis. The man buzzed excited words in Joe Cardona’s ear. The acting inspector whirled to Commissioner Barth.

“Shooting up on the twelfth floor!” he exclaimed. “People trying to locate it! They think it may be from Ranaud’s suite. The door’s locked — he doesn’t answer—”

Barth was heading for an elevator. Cardona followed with Lennis. Lamont Cranston strolled in just before the door closed. The car shot upward. On the twelfth, the arrivals found a group of frightened servants outside of Ranaud’s door.

Lennis produced a pass key. He opened the door. Cardona bounded through the living room, gun in hand. He stopped when he reached the passage and waved the others back.

“It’s Ranaud!” he exclaimed. “Drilled clean! Diamond Bert must have got him — for revenge—”

Cardona turned toward the door at the end of the passage. Grimly, he sprang forward and thrust the barrier open. He found a second bedroom. Shades were lowered; a figure was huddled on the bed.

“Got you, Diamond Bert!” cried Joe, clicking on the light, “One move and I’ll—”

He stopped short. The figure was not that of Diamond Bert Farwell. It was Gautier Ranaud, bound and gagged. Amazed, Joe wrenched the bonds from the Frenchman. He helped Ranaud to his feet.

“Two of you!” Cardona exclaimed. “Say—”

“Ah, m’sieu,” gasped Ranaud, dopily. “The other — he have take my place. Las’ night, m’sieu. He have come in to mock me, this very day. Ou est le prefect — the commissioner—”

“Out here,” replied Cardona, grimly. He dragged Ranaud along. “Look at this commissioner!”

Barth had reached the front bedroom. He was looking at the body on the floor when Cardona arrived.

The commissioner gaped when he saw the second Ranaud. Releasing the Frenchman, Cardona stooped and seized the black beard that covered the dead face on the floor. He yanked away the disguise.

“Diamond Bert,” asserted Joe. “I don’t know who got him. But whoever did — well, it was a good job.”

On a hunch, Joe swung to the suitcase. He scattered shirts aside. He grabbed out a bag — the one with the diamonds — and passed it to Barth. Then he found a large box, buried deep. Jewels glittered as Cardona cracked it open.

“All the swag!” exclaimed Cardona. “The stuff he got at Tatson’s and Lewkesbury’s! He foxed us, commissioner, sending out that dummy box to the armored truck!”

Barth was nodding. He had opened the little bag and was shaking out the uncut diamonds. Gautier Ranaud, recovered from his grogginess, was reaching for the stones, counting them. The Frenchman was excitedly gasping in his native tongue, declaring that every stone had been recovered.

Joe Cardona tossed a bundle of shirts back in the suitcase. He stared. Upon the white surface came a splotch of blackness, the outline of a weird silhouette. A hawk-faced profile; one that brought sudden understanding to Cardona’s brain.

The profile glided away. It was gone. Yet Cardona stood staring. When he looked up, he saw Barth and Ranaud still busy with the diamonds. A third person had joined them: Lamont Cranston.

Joe Cardona never connected the quiet-faced millionaire with the profile that had faded. For Joe’s stare had become distant. The star detective had found the answer to the deserved death of Diamond Bert.

Joe realized, who, alone, could have trapped the supercrook. He knew whose hand had waged the strenuous battle that had finally brought triumph to the cause of justice. Voiceless, Joe Cardona’s lips phrased a silent name:

“The Shadow!”