The Condor

CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW’S HOUR

AT precisely quarter past eight, The Shadow strolled from the lobby of the Cobalt Club. His gait was more leisurely than ever; the doorman took it as a sign that Lamont Cranston had dined well.

A limousine curved over from across the street as the figure of Lamont Cranston appeared upon the sidewalk. A chauffeur stepped forth and bowed as he opened the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Cranston.”

This was Stanley, Lamont Cranston’s chauffeur. Like others, he thought The Shadow was his real master.

Even Stanley did not know of the league between The Shadow and the actual Lamont Cranston that helped The Shadow to masquerade during the millionaire’s absence.

The Shadow entered the limousine. Stanley took the wheel and drove slowly away, expecting orders through the speaking tube. They came. The Shadow, in the quiet tone of Cranston, ordered the chauffeur to take him to an address near Riverside Drive.

It was just half past eight when the limousine arrived at its destination. Stanley sat stolid at the wheel, a habit to which he had been trained. He did not hear the door open; nor did he see the figure that emerged.

During the ride, The Shadow had opened a locked bag that he kept in the limousine. From it he had taken garments of black. He had doffed-silk hat and overcoat; in their place he was wearing his cloak and slouch hat.

Stealthily, invisible in darkness, The Shadow moved along a secluded stretch of sidewalk. He glided through a passage behind a low, old-fashioned apartment building. He reached a wall; from there, his course led upward.

A window, a projection, finally a grilled balcony. The Shadow came outside a second-story window that marked a darkened room. He wedged a flat length of steel between the portions of the sash. The window yielded noiselessly. The Shadow entered.

This was the rear room of a corner apartment. It had two windows at the back; one at the side. The Shadow’s blotched shape formed a silhouette as he entered; then he was totally within the darkness of the room.

Only a thin streak of light showed between heavy somber curtains at the front of the room. Blinking a flashlight, The Shadow kept its rays against the wall. He found a picture frame, set like a panel. He pressed it with gloved fingers.

At first, the frame refused to budge. Then The Shadow found the combination. Down; up; down again; then to the left. A hidden hinge delivered a click. The frame swung wide. The flashlight showed the combination of a wall safe.

BLINKING ended. In total darkness, with muffled silence, The Shadow handled the knob, listening for every betraying sound. Minutes lingered slowly while he worked. Then the combination yielded. The safe door, small but thick, swung open at The Shadow’s bidding.

The flashlight blinked upon the surface of a silver casket. The Shadow raised the lid; pearls shimmered from velvet setting. With one hand, The Shadow plucked the globules. His final touch was the removal of one that had stood out from the rest.

The genuine Blue Pearl. The Shadow was in Michael Walpin’s living room. He had found the collector’s safe, worked its combination; now Walpin’s pearls were in his possession. A slight click sounded as The Shadow let the pearls trickle into a small chamois bag.

Gloved fingers opened a box that The Shadow drew from his cloak. This was the package that he had mentioned at the Cobalt Club. From it, The Shadow, produced the imitation Blue Pearl; also the others that he had selected from Clark Copley’s first display.

Carefully, The Shadow put these replacements in the velvet setting. The false Blue Pearl stood out as finely as had the original. The others, however, differed somewhat from Walpin’s valued prizes. But as The Shadow drew away and blinked the flashlight, he noted that the effect was similar.

Any eye — no matter whose — would have recognized the Blue Pearl and with it forgotten the remainder of the lot. The Shadow laughed softly as he put the chamois bag in the box. He closed the safe, then the paneled picture.

The substitution of false for genuine had taken longer perhaps than necessary; for The Shadow had shown no haste. But it was close to nine o’clock, and as The Shadow stepped across the room, he heard the ring of a doorbell; then footsteps beyond the curtained entry.

Moving with swift glide, The Shadow gained the window; he moved out to the balcony and closed the sash behind him. Again the thin strip of metal worked to close the catch.

Just as The Shadow completed his task, the light came on in the room that he had left.

Staring from the edge of the balcony, The Shadow saw two men enter. One was Michael Walpin, a squatly, dark-haired individual. The other was a tall, bald-headed man who wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles. This was Acting Commissioner Wainwright Barth.

Lost in the outside darkness, The Shadow dropped from the balcony. Once below, he surveyed the rear of Walpin’s apartment. The view was to his liking, as indicated by a softly whispered laugh.

Walpin preferred well-shaded lights. The glow from the room was soft; it did not offer outsiders an opportunity to notice happenings within. Moreover, the rear of the apartment was isolated; the projecting balcony helped to obscure the rear windows.

The Shadow reached the parked limousine. He entered silently. His cloak swished as he removed it.

Packing it in the bag, he added his slouch hat; then included the box that contained Walpin’s pearls. He locked the bag and donned overcoat and silk hat.

“Stanley!” Lamont Cranston spoke quietly but emphatically through the tube. “Come, Stanley. Open the door.”

The chauffeur alighted; he looked puzzled as he reached the curb and opened the rear door of the limousine. This was unusual; Lamont Cranston seldom gave the order.

“I was dozing, Stanley,” remarked The Shadow, quietly, as he stepped to the sidewalk. “I did not realize that we had reached our destination. You can go back to New Jersey, Stanley.”

“You are not coming home tonight, sir?”

“I shall bring the coupe. By the way, Stanley” — The Shadow pointed through the opened door — “give this bag to Richards, as soon as you arrive home. Have him place it in my room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And keep it on the seat beside you when you drive. I do not wish to run the risk of having it stolen.”

WHILE Stanley was obeying, The Shadow strolled away. He rounded a corner, came to the front of the apartment building and rang a bell that bore Michael Walpin’s name. The doorknob clicked. The Shadow entered.

Michael Walpin was waiting at the door of his apartment when The Shadow arrived. With the host was Wainwright Barth. Both gave greeting as they saw the face of Lamont Cranston. Walpin led the way to the rear room.

“You know, commissioner,” he said to Barth, with a genial chuckle, “I was highly pleased when my friend Cranston called me this afternoon and suggested a get-together. We have met at rare intervals in the past; his call today was a most propitious one.”

“Walpin seemed quite anxious for me to come tonight,” explained The Shadow, also to Barth. “When I told him that I expected friends to meet me at the club, he suggested that I bring them along. But I limited the invitation to you, commissioner.”

“You see, commissioner,” explained Walpin, “I have long known that Cranston was a connoisseur; his judgment of rare objects is notable. As chance had it” — the collector paused to chuckle — “tonight offered me the opportunity to learn his estimate of some valuable pearls that have long been in my possession.”

“Pearls?” quizzed The Shadow, his quiet tone well-feigned. “I did not know that they were your specialty, Walpin.”

“Few persons do,” smiled Walpin. “When I purchased my pearls, some years ago, I kept the matter secret. It was known abroad that I was the new owner of the collection that had belonged to the Duke of Chambrelle; but the news had never been told in this country.

“Yesterday, commissioner” — Walpin turned to Barth — “I received a telephone call from the secretary of Lord Blossington, who is at present in New York. I learned that Lord Blossington was one of the few who knew that I owned the famous Blue Pearl that once belong to the Duke of Chambrelle.

“The secretary arranged for Lord Blossington to come here tonight. Since the visit was to be incognito, he urged, specifically, that I dispense with the presence of servants; though he added — quite oddly, I thought — that there would be no objection to my having friends whom his lordship might enjoy meeting.”

“Quite an order,” remarked Barth, polishing his spectacles as he spoke.

“True,” agreed Walpin, “and on that account I invited no one, until Cranston chanced to call me so opportunely. When he asked about his friends—”

“I mentioned your name, commissioner,” interposed The Shadow, “and Walpin was most anxious that you should be present.”

“Jove!” exclaimed Barth. “This is indeed a pleasure! But tell me, Mr. Walpin, about these pearls of yours. They are valuable?”

“Estimated at one hundred thousand dollars, commissioner.”

“Yet you keep them here? Unguarded?”

“In my wall safe. Hidden behind that painting. The one in the third panel.”

“You deem a wall safe sufficiently strong?”

“Yes, considering the fact that practically no one knows that I own such a valuable collection. That fact, in itself, means security. Hm-m-m. It is approaching half past nine. I wonder what is keeping his lordship.”

“When was he due to arrive?”

“Shortly after nine. The secretary was quite precise about the hour. Perhaps it would be wise for me to call his hotel.”

THE SHADOW watched Walpin go to the telephone. A thin smile was present on the lips of Lamont Cranston; Wainwright Barth, however, did not notice it. The commissioner was still busy polishing his pince-nez.

“Hello… Hello… What is that?” Walpin had gained connection with the hotel that he was calling. “Yes, I am inquiring for Lord Blossington… Really, there must be some mistake… No, no, I am positive.

“I spoke to his secretary only yesterday… But he assured me that Lord Blossington was there… Positively… My name is Michael Walpin… Yes, and I would be pleased to have you learn what you can about this hoax…”

“A hoax?” The question came from Wainwright Barth, as Walpin hung up the receiver in dejected fashion. “Did I hear you rightly, Mr. Walpin?”

Barth had put on his spectacles; he was glaring through the lenses, his eyes gleaming with eagerness.

Barth’s great delight lay in tracking down persons who perpetrated hoaxes.

“Yes,” nodded Walpin, seriously. “Lord Blossington is not at the Hotel Marlingstone. Apparently he has not been there at all. I have been duped, commissioner!”

“Outrageous!” exclaimed Barth. “Particularly since the matter concerns your pearls. We shall trace this imposition, Mr. Walpin. We shall discover the scoundrel who has hoodwinked you. I promise that—”

Barth broke off. A clock was delivering the stroke of half past nine; but it was not that sound that startled the commissioner. Barth was staring toward the curtained doorway at the front of the room. He had heard stealthy footsteps.

A curtain was brushed aside. On the threshold stood a masked man, stalwart of build, his features fully covered by the bandanna handkerchief that he had used to hide them. The intruder’s eyes showed through holes in the cloth; his right hand was raised, holding a leveled revolver.

THE SHADOW’S arms went up. The gesture brought prompt duplication. Barth and Walpin both copied the example. The man on the threshold delivered a jeering growl.

“Back up there,” he ordered. “Keep them dukes high! I’m taking a look for these pearls I’ve been hearing about!”

The Shadow’s eyes were directly on the painting that covered the secret panel. The masked man saw the direction of the gaze. With a gruff laugh, he advanced and placed his hand against the painting.

Walpin gasped aloud. Barth stared, glowering as he fumed. Only The Shadow, calm in the guise of Cranston, remained unperturbed. His lips were straight; his eyes steady. To The Shadow, this masked arrival was not an unexpected one.

A well-timed hour had ended. The Shadow had started action at half past eight; he had awaited the climax due half past nine. For the masked robber had come here at his bidding; secretly, The Shadow planned to aid him in his rifling of Michael Walpin’s wall safe.