The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER XX. THE SNARE

“READY?”

The question came from Martin Havelock. He was standing by the fireplace in his uncle’s living room, about to press the switch that would open the hidden elevator.

“One moment, Martin,” returned Cecil Armsbury. The old man was seated in his favorite chair. “I think I heard the door bell. Calhoun will answer it.”

Havelock showed momentary alarm. Then he strolled from the fireplace and lighted a cigarette. There was a knock at the door. Armsbury motioned to Havelock. The young man went over and unlocked the door. He opened it to admit Calhoun.

“Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” explained the servant. “One is Mr. Matson, the curator of the Egyptian Museum. The other is a detective from headquarters.”

“Matson?” quizzed Armsbury, in a pleased tone. “Ah! I shall be glad to see him. You say a detective also? I hope nothing has gone amiss. Usher them in, Calhoun. Then you may retire. I shall not need you later.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a warning glance toward his nephew, Cecil Armsbury arose to his feet. He was all smiles as he stepped forward to greet the two men who entered. He knew Matson. The curator introduced him to Cardona.

“My nephew,” remarked Armsbury, turning to Martin Havelock. “He is my only nephew — Martin Havelock. Sit down, gentlemen. Tell me the reason for this unexpected visit. I hope that nothing serious has occurred.”

“Something very serious,” explained Matson, solemnly. “The Egyptian Museum has been rifled by thieves. Your entire collection of antiquities has been stolen.”

Cecil Armsbury sank back in his chair. His whole attitude was one of a man who had experienced a terrific shock. Martin Havelock looked on in admiration.

“More than that,” added Matson, “the thieves also took the mummy case of Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe—”

“With its priceless treasure?”

“They carried away the case intact.”

CECIL ARMSBURY was gripping the arms of his chair. His air showed that he regarded this daring theft as a terrific outrage. Joe Cardona motioned to Handley Matson to say no more.

“We want to recover these stolen articles, Mr. Armsbury,” he explained. “We have come here because we believe that you can help us.”

“How? I shall do all in my power.”

“Give us some information, then, regarding the mummy cases that you donated to the Egyptian Museum.”

Armsbury stared with wild eyes. A sudden thought had occurred to him.

“My collection of mummies?” he questioned. “I remember! I had ordered them to be delivered today. You do not mean that they were stolen also!”

“Yes,” returned Cardona, “but not from the museum. Tell me, Mr. Armsbury, where did you have them stored?”

“This is bewildering!” exclaimed Armsbury. “Let me think. Indeed, Mr. Cardona, I do not remember for the moment. I shall have to call my attorney, Jason Thunig. He arranges all my business affairs.”

“Thunig is out of town,” interposed Martin Havelock.

“So he is,” recalled Armsbury. “You do not recall my mentioning the name of the warehouse, do you, Martin?”

“No.”

“I may be able to remember it. But tell me” — Armsbury’s tone was quizzical — “have there been two robberies? One at the museum — the other at the warehouse?”

“No.” Cardona furnished the explanation. “I have a theory, Mr. Armsbury, that may aid us. The manner of the robbery makes me believe that crooks were smuggled into the museum in mummy cases.

“That granted, they must have entered the warehouse first; there to remove the mummies from the cases. Do you understand?”

“I see. A remarkable deduction, Mr. Cardona. Tell me, has this been established as a certainty?”

“No. But it is the only plausible theory. I struck upon it while I was in the museum, after Inspector Klein had left.”

“Ah! And did you corroborate it, Matson?”

“I did,” said the curator.

“I suppose,” remarked Armsbury, in an innocuous tone, “that you have informed Inspector Klein.”

“Not yet,” declared Cardona. “I want to give him the whole dope, Mr. Armsbury. I told my theory to Mr. Matson. He and I were alone at the time. So we came down here at once. When I make my report, I want it to be a clincher. I wish you could remember the name of that warehouse.”

“I have it!” Armsbury sprang to his feet with agility. “Do you remember it now, Martin? I marked that name in my memoranda book — the one in the table drawer—”

The old man pointed as he spoke. His face was turned toward Martin Havelock. Cardona and Matson were following the direction of the old man’s finger. They did not see the motion of Armsbury’s lips.

Havelock alone caught that. He understood. Nonchalantly, the young man dropped his hands into his coat pockets.

CECIL ARMSBURY strode across the room. Cardona and Matson followed him. The old man yanked open a desk drawer. He reached in and glanced over his shoulder, smiling.

“Here it is” — Armsbury was looking at Joe Cardona. His gaze turned to Havelock — “the very thing we want to—”

As he broke the sentence, Armsbury turned. In his hand was a short-barreled revolver. He swung the weapon directly at Joe Cardona’s breast. At the same time, Martin Havelock made a sidewise spring.

His hand, too, had drawn a gun. He had his finger on the trigger.

“Up with them!” snarled Havelock.

Joe Cardona was too stupefied to do other than obey. Handley Matson followed the detective’s action.

Bowing, old Cecil Armsbury pointed to his nephew.

“This gentleman will take charge of you,” he said. “As a man of crime, I am a mere tyro. Perhaps you have heard of my nephew, Mr. Cardona. Under another name than that of Martin Havelock—”

Cardona was staring at the young man with the gun. He saw the fiendish sneer that had grown on Havelock’s lips. Yet he could not place the crook until Armsbury’s next words brought astonishment.

“Better known,” smirked the old villain, “as Duke Larrin.”

“Duke Larrin!” exclaimed Cardona.

“Yes,” snarled Havelock. “That’s who I am — Duke Larrin. I’ve been working this town of yours and you’ve been too dumb to know it. So you’re Joe Cardona, eh? Well — there’s a bunch of friends of mine who’ll be glad to meet you.”

Cecil Armsbury was depriving Joe Cardona of his revolver. The old swindler was chuckling. He urged Cardona and Matson toward the fireplace; Havelock accompanied the movement with a gesture of his revolver. Armsbury, carrying Cardona’s revolver, leaped ahead.

“As Duke Larrin’s uncle,” chortled the old fiend, “I am worthy of my nephew. It was for him that I provided a very excellent headquarters which has failed to attract your notice, friend Cardona.

“Allow me” — Armsbury was pressing the switch — “to conduct you to our lair. It is the resting place of Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe. He is dead — poor Senwosri — but he shall have company. He came dead from the Egyptian Museum; you have come living from that same place. Let the living join the dead!”

Armsbury cackled gleefully. Martin Havelock stepped aboard the elevator and descended. Cecil Armsbury remained alone; but he and the gun he held were a sufficient threat. The elevator came up empty. Armsbury forced Cardona and Matson aboard. The lift began to descend.

“My nephew will be awaiting you,” cackled Armsbury. “He will take charge until I join you!”

Cardona and Matson, staring upward, saw the gloating face of the fiend. Then came darkness as the descending elevator carried its prisoners to the crypt below.