The Four Signets

CHAPTER XII. THEFT AFTER DEATH

LATE afternoon. Elwood Phraytag’s shuttered mansion loomed dark against a dulling sky. Cars were parked along the secluded block. Among them stood a hearse. Death services were being held for the deceased philanthropist.

The newspapers had carried an announcement of the funeral. Brief services to which friends were invited; then private interment. The final statement was significant. It meant that no mourners would follow the hearse to the Sky Line Cemetery in New Jersey.

For Elwood Phraytag left no living relatives. He was the last of the family who would be buried in the mausoleum that he had built many years before. There was a tragic story in Elwood Phraytag’s death.

Though he had possessed a fair-sized fortune, Phraytag was rated as almost penniless. His life — so the newspapers declared — had been one of giving. He had retained only enough funds to provide for his last days; the house was to be sold and the proceeds donated to the blind.

Only Worthington was to receive a legacy. That gift, in itself, was charity. For Phraytag had chosen a servant who, like himself, had no kin. Worthington would never serve another master; but he would be free from want, thanks to Phraytag’s provisions.

Though there was to be no procession, there were mourners in plenty at the old mansion. Elwood Phraytag had been a benefactor to many. They paid their tribute by coming to the philanthropist’s home to view the body.

They were of all classes, these people, and few knew any whom they saw there. Besides, the recipients of Phraytag’s charitable gifts, there were numerous persons who had been friends of the old philanthropist.

Most of the visitors came and departed before the services. There were probably three dozen persons present when the rites were said. Among them was a tall, calm-faced individual who stood in a gloomy corner of the room where Phraytag’s body lay.

Many people who came and left would have noticed this personage, had they known his name. But none were acquainted with him; for he associated chiefly with a class that did not attend the funeral. Elwood Phraytag had few wealthy acquaintances; and this mourner was Lamont Cranston, reputedly a multimillionaire.

Those who viewed the visitor’s solemn, steady features presumed that he had been a friend of Elwood Phraytag’s. In this they were wrong. The dead philanthropist had never met Lamont Cranston. Hence the millionaire’s presence might have been unexplainable, but for another factor in the case.

Actually, the quiet stranger was The Shadow. He had adopted the guise of Lamont Cranston — one which he frequently used — that he might be present when the services were ended. For The Shadow knew that mystery had enshrouded the death of Elwood Phraytag.

BY the time the services had been completed, this silent visitor had noted every face present. Most of those who had remained here were elderly men. Their countenances, solemn with grief, had given no sign of interests other than those of mourners. Yet The Shadow waited.

Pall bearers were entering. The Shadow’s eyes turned toward the corpse. Elwood Phraytag’s thin hands rested crossed upon his breast. The left lay upon the right. The third finger wore a heavy signet ring.

Lamont Cranston had noted that ornament closely when he had viewed the body. He had observed the initials “E P” upon the surface of the ring.

A few of the mourners were approaching the bier. One was an erect man who let one hand rest beside Phraytag’s body. The Shadow noted that the man’s eyes had steadied upon the ring which glimmered on Phraytag’s finger.

He saw more. The living hand that rested close to the corpse was wearing a signet ring that matched the one on Phraytag’s bony claw. The tall figure of Lamont Cranston had moved forward from the corner.

Sharp eyes glowed downward from almost beside the erect mourner. On the signet, The Shadow saw the initials “G L.”

The mourner moved away. Edging into the place that he had left was a stooped fellow whose breath came wheezily. A limp hand dropped upon the side of the coffin as this newcomer leaned forward above Phraytag’s body.

Again, a gaze noted the ring on the dead man’s hand. The Shadow, looking downward, saw its counterpart upon the stooped man’s finger. The initials were “H K.”

Others were moving away; only one man remained at the center of the bier. His face was like parchment; his crafty profile showed plainly against the lights upon the wall. The Shadow caught the glimmer of cunning eyes; he also saw the flash of a gold signet ring. As the mourner’s hand was about to draw away from the lighted area, The Shadow spied the engraved initials: “L. Z.”

All the while, Worthington had been standing solemnly in the background. The old servant noted all of the dozen-odd persons who had approached for a last glimpse of the deceased. He saw Lamont Cranston’s figure move away.

Then came the pall bearers. The coffin was closed; then raised and carried forth.

The last of the mourners followed. Worthington went to the front door and closed it, after the hearse rolled away. The servant returned into the house of gloom. His steps were slow and faltering. They paused in the rear of the hallway; then came into the room where the body had been resting.

Worthington was carrying a long rod that contained a lighted wick. It was an old-fashioned lighter; with it, the servant proceeded to light the huge chandelier that hung from the center of the room.

Phraytag’s house had never been wired with electricity. This task that Worthington was performing seemed to be a duty that the servant had made a formula.

When the illumination was complete, Worthington sighed. He looked about the room, as though trying to picture scenes of the past. His eyes were moist and dim as they became suddenly fixed upon a corner of the room.

Worthington had suddenly discovered that he was not alone. Standing in the corner was a mourner who had not been recognized; the very person whom Worthington had last seen beside the casket. The startled servant was staring at the steady features of Lamont Cranston.

“Who — who are you?” gasped Worthington. “I thought that — I thought—”

“You believed that every one had gone.” The quiet interruption came in an even tone. “You did not expect to see any one here; least of all a person whose face you did not recognize.”

“That is true, sir.”

“My name is Lamont Cranston. I remained here, Worthington, to speak with you.”

“Yes, sir. You knew my master?”

“I was one of the first to learn of his death.”

The cryptic answer satisfied Worthington. The servant took it to mean that Cranston had been a friend of Phraytag’s. Worthington nodded in an understanding fashion.

“Elwood Phraytag had many friends,” stated The Shadow. “I feel an interest in them. Your master, Worthington, was a unique man, whose life was one of accomplishment. I should like to know which of his friends were most like him.

“That, Worthington, is why I remained here in the house. You served Elwood Phraytag for many years. I believed that your opinion could be my best guide regarding his friends.”

The quiet tone, as rich as the words, had a marked effect upon the old servant. Half choking, Worthington began to speak.

“It was good of you, sir,” said the servant. “I–I served Mr. Phraytag for many years. Just as you have said, sir. I was with him— actually with him, sir — when he died. I–I—well, it’s good, sir, to feel that some one understands.”

Cranston’s features were immobile, almost masklike. Yet Worthington caught a sympathetic gleam from eyes that showed on either side of a hawklike nose.

“You — you were here, sir,” stammered Worthington. “You saw those persons — the ones who came for a last glimpse of the master. They— well, sir — they were his real friends.”

“One was Mr. Tromlin — Donald Tromlin, the banker. Then there was Doctor MacCallert; of course he would be here, sir. And Mr. Laverock—”

“Mr. Laverock?”

“Yes, sir. Guy Laverock. He used to see the master often, a few years ago. There were two other men here, sir. I think of them with Mr. Laverock, because they came here with him. Mr. Kent — Harbrook Kent. Mr. Zurick; his first name was Lucius, sir. Lucius Zurick.”

WORTHINGTON paused. He seemed to be recalling times when the four had met. A sad smile played upon the servant’s lips.

“They were four alike,” mused Worthington. “The four philanthropists, they called themselves. They met here some months ago, sir. But that was the last time. The master was weary. Very weary, sir.

“I recall that he spoke about them several times, to me, sir. He told me that they were still together. That he was one of them, in spirit.”

“They still meet?”

“Yes, sir. At Mr. Zurick’s. One would not have known that they were here together when they stood beside Mr. Phraytag, there in his coffin. But that was the way they always were, sir. Like Mr. Phraytag. Very much to themselves. Only when they met with no one else about — only then would they speak.

“At least that is what I believed, sir. They always came here separately. Silent men. They were grieved. I could see it, sir, in their eyes.”

Again, Worthington paused. This time, the servant felt that he had spoken too much. Elwood Phraytag had trained Worthington to silence. From habit, the servitor looked toward Lamont Cranston as though expecting an order.

“Thank you, Worthington,” came the quiet tones. “I am pleased to have heard your opinion. I shall remember those three of whom you have spoken.”

The visitor was moving toward the door. Worthington accompanied him and bowed as he left. He saw Lamont Cranston stroll across the street, toward a limousine that was parked there. The old servant watched the car roll away.

THE limousine was heading toward the Holland Tunnel, under the guidance of Stanley, the chauffeur. In the rear seat, the form of Lamont Cranston was almost unseen in the darkness. A soft laugh came from steady lips. Its whispered tones were those of The Shadow.

This trip had not been the first that The Shadow had made to the old mansion since the death of Elwood Phraytag. Hours after he had first viewed the body of the deceased philanthropist, the mysterious visitor had entered the old mansion.

In a ghostly tour of inspection, The Shadow had assured himself that murder alone had been the motive of the person who had entered before him. Nothing, so far as The Shadow could determine, had been removed from the house.

The Shadow had assured himself of Worthington’s faithfulness. The servant had been on hand when Phraytag had died. So few objects of value were in the house that Worthington would certainly have spoken if he had found that anything was missing.

The house, though old and rambling, lacked secret places. Therefore, The Shadow had limited his theories to two! One, that Phraytag had been murdered because of something that he knew; the other, that some one intended to perform a theft after the old man’s death.

The first theory was plausible, following the death of Philip Lyken. Therefore, The Shadow had accepted it as a sufficient motive. But he had also kept the second theory under consideration and had come to the funeral intending to remain within the mansion.

Then had come the episode by the bier. First, The Shadow had observed that a certain object — an engraved signet ring — was to leave the house with the body of Elwood Phraytag. That was natural; such pieces of jewelry would usually go to the grave with the dead owner.

But into the picture had stepped three other men, each with a signet that matched Phraytag’s. Three philanthropists had come to view the body of the fourth; and all had assured themselves of one fact: that Phraytag’s ring was actually going to accompany the body to the tomb.

As plainly as if the three had spoken, The Shadow knew the answer. It began with Philip Lyken — a jeweler — who could well have known something about those four rings. The three had been friends of Phraytag’s. All could have shared a common secret. Possession of one of those signet rings — perhaps the ring itself — was obviously an important talisman.

Zurick. Laverock. Kent. The Shadow had checked their names by their initials. Each knew that the other two were present; it appeared that they had come by mutual agreement. No one of the three could have coveted the ring on Phraytag’s finger.

That made their purpose plain. The three philanthropists had come to make sure that the fourth was carrying his secret with him. The last of those to view the body, close watchers while the coffin was being closed, they had satisfied themselves that their secret was being buried with Phraytag’s corpse.

No need to remove the ring. Within a coffin in a mausoleum, it would lie unknown. The three men must have thought of the remote possibility of grave robbers. That proved that the ring, to any one who did not know its secret, would be nothing more than a mass of gold to be melted down.

THE limousine drew up in front of a large mansion. Lamont Cranston’s tall form alighted. His quiet tones ordered Stanley to bring the coupe from the garage. Five minutes later, the coupe rolled from the driveway.

The Shadow was taking a cross-country route to the Sky Line Cemetery. Darkness had set in; night, The Shadow’s shroud, had descended with foggy thickness.

Minutes passed. A tiny light glimmered upon the door of a whitened mausoleum. The name “Phraytag” was carved above the doorway. Steel worked within the deep lock of the door. The heavy barrier came open, smoothly; then closed.

Within the vault, the blinking light revealed the stone sarcophagus that bore the name of Elwood Phraytag. The lid swung upward. Gloved hands unscrewed the top of the inner casket.

The Shadow had come here in search of some clue to Elwood Phraytag’s death. He knew that the old philanthropist had been murdered. He had divined that Phraytag possessed an important secret. That was sufficient reason for the old man’s sudden end.

Only by examination of the signet ring could The Shadow gain the clue he needed without giving the other three philanthropists an inkling that he was on the trail. Whatever their purpose, whether true friends or secret enemies of the murdered man, The Shadow must work without their knowledge.

The flashlight shone within the opened coffin. It rested upon the dead, drawn features of Elwood Phraytag. It moved to the withered hand that still lay crossed upon the dead man’s breast.

There the light stopped. Keen, burning eyes stared. Phraytag’s left hand still lay upon his right. But the clawlike fingers were without an ornament. The engraved signet ring was gone!

THE light went out. Lids closed. The Shadow appeared, a blackened splotch, against the outside of the mausoleum. The door closed silently; The Shadow’s hand locked the tomb. Then, swiftly, the dark-cloaked figure moved away.

Theft after death. Such had been accomplished. It could only have been done after the coffin had been placed within the mausoleum. The Shadow knew that none of the three philanthropists would have performed this deed.

Some one — a seeker after Elwood Phraytag’s secret — had been waiting in the cemetery until the body had been placed within its tomb. That person sought the secret that had belonged to four men — now to three.

Crime had played its part in Phraytag’s death. Crime would arrive again when the paths of living men had crossed. Such was inevitable. But this time, The Shadow would be present before crime could strike.