The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER XII. THE STOLEN SCROLL

A CLOCK chimed in a room of Brisbane Calbot’s home. It marked the third quarter. Fifteen minutes before ten. Hardly had the chiming ended before a bell tinkled to announce a visitor.

Brisbane Calbot heard the bell. The recluse arose from his reading and reluctantly placed his book aside.

He walked slowly through the darkened hallway until he reached the front, where he pressed a light switch. He pushed back the bolt of the front door; then turned the lock. He peered cautiously through the crack as he opened the door.

A man was standing on the door step. He turned as Calbot’s white face appeared. Brisbane saw a smile flash in the darkness. He put a query.

“You are Mr. Basib?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “Darwin Basib, the curio dealer who made the appointment for tonight.”

“Come in.”

Fingers Keefel stepped into the light. Brisbane Calbot moved beyond him and closed the large front door. With shrewd gaze, Fingers watched the man’s action. A gloating smile appeared upon the lips of the visitor.

A pressed bolt — the turning of a lock below. These were easy to counteract from within the house. As Calbot moved back from the door, Fingers, still standing in the vestibule, removed his hat and coat. He spied a rack just inside the inner door; but he did not move in that direction.

Instead, he spoke to Calbot as he showed his host the hat and coat.

“Can I hang these somewhere?” he questioned. “Is there a rack—”

He looked about the vestibule as he spoke. Calbot took the hat and coat.

“Right this way, Mr. Basib,” he said.

“The rack is inside — in the hallway. Here—”

In indication, Calbot moved into the hall. Raising hat and coat, he hung them on the rack. Fingers Keefel foresaw the action. Standing by the outer door, he turned and with deft movement drew the bolt while his other hand twisted the key of the lock. Then, with a quick step, he turned toward the hall. He was at the inner door as Calbot turned.

“This way, Mr. Basib,” said the collector, not suspecting for an instant that his visitor had released the fastenings of the front door. “I like to talk with curio dealers. Collecting is my hobby—”

Fingers Keefel was experiencing uneasiness. Despite the ease of the trickery which he had used at the front door, he had a suspicion that eyes were watching him. Fingers had opened the way for Croaker Mannick. Could Brisbane Calbot have seen him do it?

AS they entered Calbot’s reading room, Fingers decided that he must have been mistaken. Calbot’s face was friendly and showed no sign of distrust. The collector offered his visitor a cigar. Fingers sat down and smiled.

“You told me” — Calbot’s tone denoted anticipation — “that you had something most unusual to tell me about curios. I assumed that you might be desirous of selling me some for my collection; but you informed me that such was not the case—”

“You heard me right,” interposed Fingers. “I don’t sell curios, Mr. Calbot. I buy them.”

“But I am not interested in selling any of my curios—”

“You might be,” interrupted the false dealer, “when you have heard my terms. There is a particular type of curio that I buy, Mr. Calbot.”

“Ah!”

“A type of curio that no one wants.”

“That no one wants?”

“Yes.” Fingers smiled. “I buy fake curios, Mr. Calbot.”

The collector seemed puzzled. Fingers grinned as he went on with his explanation.

“Lots of collectors,” he said, “get stuck with phony curios. They usually buy them cheap — that’s why they get stung. So I give them their money for them and pass the fake curios on to other people.”

An indignant exclamation came from Brisbane Calbot’s lips.

“This is outrageous, Mr. Basib!” asserted the collector. “A dishonest practice!”

“Just a way out,” returned Fingers. “I find that most curio collectors are glad to find it — if they learn that they own fakes.”

“I should never take such a step,” protested Calbot. “If ever I have been swindled, the loss is my own. I trust people, Mr. Basib. I believe in honesty.”

“So do I.” Fingers suddenly changed tactics. “It’s not my fault that I had to take up this game. The collectors are the ones to blame. I used to be an expert at detecting forged curios. What did I get for it?

“Nothing. People called me in to examine articles they thought had value. I told them when I found fakes. That upset them because they saw financial loss. They didn’t like to pay me the fee that I required. They all had one question — just one question, Mr. Calbot.”

“What was that?”

“If I could help them to get rid of their fakes, passing the junk off as genuine.”

“And you complied?”

“I had to do it.” Fingers took on a mournful look. “It was the only way, Mr. Calbot. Think of it — me — the man who can spot a fake quicker than anybody else in the country — forced to go into a racket.”

“I am sorry,” stated Calbot, sympathetically. “Very sorry, Mr. Basib. I appreciate the fact that you feel remorse. I should like to aid you in a return to honesty. Perhaps” — the collector was nodding thoughtfully — “you would be willing to give an impartial study to my collection of curios. I should value your expert opinion. I can assure you, also, that I shall be willing to pay you a generous fee.

“But I shall not dispose of any spurious items in my collection. Instead, I shall spare no effort to trace the men who swindled me — should you discover that some of my curios are not genuine.”

“I’d like to see your collection,” asserted Fingers, in an eager tone. “I’d like to get a first look at it so that I could list all doubtful articles. Then I could return to give a more exact inspection.”

“Very well, Mr. Basib. Come this way.”

BRISBANE CALBOT arose and conducted his visitor toward the door that led to the stairs below.

Fingers Keefel, as he followed, gave a warning cough, as he threw a glance toward the front of the house. He heard a slight creaking sound just beyond a turn in the hall. He grinned, knowing that it must be Croaker Mannick.

Brisbane Calbot opened the door and turned on a light at the top of the stairs. With Fingers Keefel at his heels, he led the way to the cellar and unlocked the door of the curio room. The two men stepped into the room. Calbot turned on the light and waved his hand.

“Here it is,” he said.

“A wonderful collection!” exclaimed Fingers. “Wonderful. Many interesting items.”

He strolled about the room, noting one object after another and finally stopped to face Calbot.

“I suppose,” said Fingers, in an indifferent tone, “that you have other items which you consider to be of more value than these?”

“Yes,” admitted Calbot. “But—”

“Where are they?”

“I keep them in a special place.”

“In that vault?”

Calbot looked nervously at Fingers; then his eyes went toward the vault. Fingers, near the door of the curio room, gave a noiseless snap to his fingers — a sign which could be seen by anyone in the cellar.

Then, stepping past Calbot, he approached the door of the vault. He placed his hand upon a knob.

“That vault stays locked!” exclaimed Calbot, excitedly. “I do not care to open it, Mr. Basib.”

“What is the combination?” quizzed Fingers.

“What — what!” blurted Calbot. “You dare to seek to open it? Leave my house at once. At once, I say!”

“After you,” smirked Fingers, waving his hand toward the door.

Brisbane Calbot turned in bewilderment. A gasp came from his lips as he sighted the reason for his visitor’s grin.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, square-jawed man who gripped a .38. The revolver was covering Brisbane Calbot. The collector’s arms came up; he backed away.

“Good work, Croaker,” laughed Fingers, as he recognized the tough, though pasty, face of the killer whom he had summoned. “Keep this bimbo covered while I open the box.”

With cool indifference, Fingers turned and began his work upon the knob. He laughed sourly as he proceeded, talking to Brisbane Calbot as he went along.

“It would be easier,” he remarked, “if you gave me the combination. What’s that? No answer? How would a bullet from my friend’s gun suit you?”

Brisbane Calbot remained silent. Fingers Keefel muttered, another laugh.

“You’d rather die, I’ll bet,” he declared. “Well, maybe you will — maybe you will. And if you’re dead, you can’t tell us. We don’t like to stay around long after a guy takes the bump. So we’ll let you keep your funny mug shut. Keep watching, old-timer, and see how a safecracker works.”

BRISBANE CALBOT stared. His lips were pursed. As Fingers Keefel had suggested, the outraged collector was ready to face death without speaking. He had a sort of nervous confidence in the door of his safe. As Fingers growled at missed combinations, Calbot felt hysterical elation.

Fingers began to talk. It was his way of working. His growled remarks reached the door of the curio room and brought a smile to the ugly lips of Croaker Mannick.

“The last job,” was the comment that Fingers made. “I fixed it for you and you walked in, Croaker. This is a better lay for you than the one out on Long Island. Say — I helped you out when I yanked off that light, didn’t I?

“You’re cool with the gun, Croaker. The way you beat old Fatty Bogart to the shot was neat. You had to scram plenty fast. Brodie’s mob ran into trouble that you got out of. Didn’t they?”

“Yeah.” Croaker’s growled affirmative indicated an unpleasant recollection.

“Don’t get nervous, Croaker,” laughed Fingers. “Say — if I could handle a gat like you can, nothing would make me nervous — not even The Shadow.”

“Yeah?” Croaker’s voice showed actual nervousness. “Well, when I scrammed, there was some guy firing in the dark — and I didn’t like it.”

Fingers poised his hand. His smile faded. A grim look appeared upon his face. He half-turned his head to look toward Croaker. The gleaming .38 was trained steadily upon Brisbane Calbot; but Fingers fancied that he saw a nervous expression on Croaker’s face.

“This is the last job, Croaker,” assured Fingers. “I don’t blame you for wanting to get it over with — if you’ve got a hunch that The Shadow might mix in. Well — we’ll scram when we’re through — and there’s nothing more to worry about.

“Not even The Shadow can get wise to the next stunt that Duke Larrin’s going to pull. He’ll get what he’s after — and it won’t be phony junk — so he said. We’re not in it — and neither is Brodie. Even The Shadow won’t have a chance to get to that crypt of Duke Larrin’s.”

With these words, Fingers bent back to the vault. His hands resumed their task. The nervousness which Fingers had gained after his survey of Croaker s face seemed to spur him rather than deter him.

Something clicked. The door of the vault moved open. It had taken Fingers twenty-five minutes; he thought that he had done a creditable job. He did not know that The Shadow had been here before him, to do the work in exactly three minutes!

Fingers Keefel spied the golden scroll. He gloated. He pulled the object from between the two statues that guarded it and gripped the scroll beneath his arm, leaving the pedestal on the floor of the vault.

AS Fingers headed for the door of the curio room, he saw Croaker Mannick moving inward. The killer shoved the muzzle of his revolver close to Brisbane Calbot’s body. Fingers, at the door, peered nervously about. He remembered the sensation of some strange presence in the house. He wanted to be sure that no intruder was around.

“Better give him the bump,” urged Fingers, nudging his free thumb toward Brisbane Calbot. “Wait until I’m up the stairs though. You’ll have to hurry to get out before the mob piles in. I’ll open the side door, Croaker. That’ll leave two ways.”

“Yeah?” Croaker growled. “How’s the mob going to hear it if I fire down here?”

“Give them another signal upstairs.”

“And suppose they might happen to hear the first one? Listen, Fingers — I’m coming right after you — get that? I’m not sticking down here in this trap. Say — could anybody ever open that vault in shorter time than it took you?”

“There’s not another guy could do it in less than an hour.”

“Well, that settles it. This mug is going in his own vault. He won’t last a half an hour.”

Croaker’s gun jabbed against Calbot’s ribs. The curio collector backed away. Fingers Keefel grinned fiendishly as he watched from the cellar. He saw Croaker back Calbot into the vault while the curio collector gasped his protests.

“My scroll!” blurted Calbot. “You thieves! Stealing — my greatest treasure. You — you murderers!”

The last word came in a hoarse scream as the collector tumbled backward into the vault. As Calbot sprawled upon the pedestal which had held the golden scroll, the vault door swung shut. Fingers saw Croaker twirl the knob. Without another word, the safecracker started for the stairs, leaving his companion to follow.

Fingers reached the side door and opened it. He left the barrier ajar. With the fake scroll of pretended gold, Fingers slipped out into the darkness of the alleyway. He headed toward the back; he quickened his pace as he heard the blast of Croaker’s .38 from within the side door of the house.

Croaker, like Fingers, was clear. Thief and murderer were scurrying away to safety — each to his own hide-out. The third job had been accomplished.

Gloating, Fingers Keefel chuckled over the thought of Brisbane Calbot, interred alive in his own vault.

The last of three whom Duke Larrin had marked for death was buried in a spot where doom was certain!