The London Crimes

CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW DEPARTS

THE Rajah of Delapore received a prompt answer across the wire. Scarcely had he dialed before he began his conversation. Dawson Canonby had evidently been waiting close to his home telephone. The Shadow could hear the sound of a voice across the wire. Then the rajah spoke.

“Good evening, Mr. Canonby.” The tone was musical. “Yes, this is the Rajah of Delapore… Yes, of course… The final arrangements… Tomorrow…

“At some time in the afternoon… I shall call you when I am ready… Yes, be prepared to bring the money… Of course… Be sure that you are well guarded…

“The armored lorry?… Does it carry the name of your jewelry house?… Excellent!.. Use that vehicle when you come to Rudlow’s… Yes. I shall have the false stones with me…

“Do not be perturbed, Mr. Canonby. There is no reason. This transaction lies between us… No, no. It will be unnecessary for you to express an opinion regarding the false stones. You can indicate that you have seen them previously…

“Certainly… The very fact that you accept them will prove sufficient… Let the witnesses form their own conclusions… Come, Mr. Canonby! This is no time to have qualms… Ah! You will carry through as I desire?… Excellent!.. Yes, of course it is purely a protective measure… You understand the circumstances…”

While the rajah was talking, The Shadow had moved back further between the door curtains. Barkhir’s assurance that Sanghar was asleep gave indication that no danger lay from within the apartment. The Shadow expected the rajah and Barkhir to come through the doorway. That would leave the living room empty, with opportunity for prompt departure.

The Shadow had already formed a possible theory regarding the rajah’s possession of the false gems.

The telephone call to Canonby had been a final enlightenment. The Shadow had come to a full conclusion regarding the motives that actuated the Rajah of Delapore.

The main problem had become departure. The only hazard that appeared imminent was a possible inspection by Barkhir. Should the servant part the thick curtains by the window, he would discover that the sash was open. That might cause a search about the living room.

In anticipation of such a possibility, The Shadow was ready to glide back into the inner rooms the moment that Barkhir made a move toward the window. He felt confident that he could find some quick means of exit before being discovered.

“Lock up, Barkhir,” ordered the rajah. “Then summon Sanghar and tell him to relieve you. It is wise that some one should be up and about during the entire night.”

Barkhir moved toward the window. It was The Shadow’s cue. He knew that Harry Vincent, stationed below, would draw back into the fog if he heard sounds from above. The Shadow’s immediate task was to find a new exit. He glided from beyond the curtains, moving backward in the dim inner hall.

A sudden sound warned The Shadow. Quickly, he wheeled toward the rear of the little hall. His move was timely. A lunging, white-clad form had launched itself in his direction. Brown hands were driving for his throat, above them a vicious face beneath a turban.

Sanghar had awakened. The servant had come to relieve Barkhir. He had spotted The Shadow!

GLOVED fists were quick enough to catch Sanghar’s wrists. The servant’s drive, however, was sufficient to fling The Shadow hard against the wall. Sanghar wrenched one hand free. From his sash he whisked a knife and drove the blade hard for his adversary’s body.

The Shadow twisted; Sanghar’s knife skimmed the folds of his cloak and pinned a portion of it to a paneled wall. The knife drove halfway to the hilt when it struck the woodwork.

The Shadow bounded sidewise. His cloak ripped by his left shoulder, where Sanghar’s thrust had pinned the cloth. With a sudden turnabout, The Shadow gripped the Hindu and hurled him, spinning, clear across the hall. Sanghar sprawled. The Shadow wheeled directly toward the curtained doorway to the front room.

Again, he was just in time. The rajah had heard the commotion, and so had Barkhir. The latter had drawn a knife; he was driving through to aid Sanghar.

Had The Shadow hesitated, the second Hindu would have been upon him. But instead of pausing, The Shadow plunged straight against Barkhir, to meet the servant’s drive.

Smashing forms collided at the doorway. The Shadow’s ramlike shoulder sped under Barkhir’s thrust.

Clamping hands caught the servant’s waist. With the fury of his plunge, The Shadow drove Barkhir clear back into the living room and sent him rolling, tumbling across the floor.

One more adversary — the rajah, himself. He was across the room, almost by the telephone. He had paused there to gain a revolver from the teakwood box. The rajah started to take aim; he barked a command to halt. The Shadow, whirling toward the window, came to a momentary pause.

He had guessed that the rajah would hesitate if he stopped. The rajah’s desire was to trap the intruder; by feigning a willingness to parley, The Shadow saw a chance to outguess him. But the rajah’s action changed suddenly into a ruse, when he saw a new opportunity.

Both, Sanghar and Barkhir had recovered themselves, despite the vehemence of the flings that The Shadow had given them. Sanghar, knife regained, was bobbing in from the curtained doorway; Barkhir, still clutching his blade, was coming up from the floor.

The Shadow was trapped — the rajah straight before him, Sanghar at one side and Barkhir at the other.

The servants had paused, seeing that the rajah held their adversary covered. Then came the rajah’s command in rapid Hindustani — words that The Shadow understood.

The order was for the vassals to spring in and capture their cloaked antagonist.

The Hindus lunged with surprising swiftness, their knives ready for fierce strokes if The Shadow struggled. But The Shadow had a counter move. An instant before the men came upon him, he wheeled toward the curtained window, a few feet behind him.

With harsh cries, Barkhir and Sanghar converged to pounce after their quarry. Their white-clad forms came between the rajah and The Shadow, forming a temporary screen. The rajah could not fire for the moment; glowering, he waited until his servants gripped their foe. That moment never came.

Hard upon his whirl toward the window curtains, The Shadow gave a mammoth bound toward the sill.

Launching himself headlong, he dived squarely into the heavy draperies, half spreading his arms as he flung his full weight forward.

Like a living arrow, The Shadow’s form sped clear of wild knife thrusts delivered by the Hindu servants.

With a rip, the velvet curtains snapped loose from flimsy fastenings. A diver enveloped in a curtained shroud, The Shadow plunged out into space, carrying the velvet draperies with him.

Harry Vincent saw the plunge from below. Looking straight up, he saw a zooming form shoot out into the fog, a figure that formed a huge, spreading mass of indefinable shape. The Shadow’s dive was one of great proportions. It carried him — curtains and all — clear of the narrow space between the building and the terrace.

A dozen feet through mid-air; but it was a drive, more than a fall. For The Shadow, by the very power of his dive, reached the soft ground of the terrace six feet above the spot where Harry stood. The rajah’s window was only a dozen feet above Harry’s head. The Shadow had fallen less than half that distance.

The long plunge would have crippled him, nevertheless, had it not been for the curtains. Sweeping those draperies before him, The Shadow landed, completely wrapped in velvet. Jarred, but uninjured, he came rolling free, just as Barkhir and Sanghar began mad shouts of angered frustration.

Then came shots from the window. The rajah had arrived; he was stabbing bullets toward the mass that he could dimly discern upon the terrace. While flashes jabbed through the fog, a tall figure unlimbered beside Harry Vincent and gloved hands caught the agent’s arm.

The Shadow had cleared in time. Lost in this lower darkness, he was dragging Harry toward the house wall. The rajah’s shots had ended. His first ire finished, he had evidently decided that it was folly to dispatch new bullets toward an outsprawled foe.

FROM somewhere close by came the shrill blast of a whistle. An answering note trilled. Some police constable had heard the shots and was signaling to a comrade.

The Shadow had whisked off his torn cloak. He was stuffing it into the briefcase, which lay close to the wall. Along went the slouch hat and the gloves. The Shadow was donning coat and fedora. He gave a warning whisper to Harry.

Footsteps clattered on paving from in front of the apartment hotel. Harry expected that The Shadow would start for the rear; instead, his chief dragged him forward, then pushed Harry up a lesser slope of the embankment. Together, they reached the projecting shelter of a widespread bush, just as a London bobby, armed with torch and truncheon, appeared on the soft ground beside the building.

Another officer had come from the rear of the apartment hotel, a fact which proved The Shadow’s wisdom in taking this middle course. The two were flicking their lights upward, calling to those above.

They could see the dim glow of the living room, now that the curtains were cleared away. It was the rajah who answered them. He gave his identity.

“Look upon the terrace,” called the rajah. “You will find the thief there. He leaped from the window. It was I who fired the revolver.”

Warily, with ready clubs, the constables moved upward. Their lights glimmered upon the curtains. They began an examination of the bullet-riddled velvet.

“No one here, your excellency,” called one constable. “Nothing here but curtains, sir. The blighter must have scrambled away somewhere.”

“He cannot have gone far,” returned the rajah.

“We shall rout him out, sir,” promised the second bobby. “Trust us to find him if he is still about.”

Each bobby started in a different direction. New whistles were sounding; they called to new constables who were arriving in the fog. To Harry Vincent, crouched by The Shadow, the officers seemed everywhere about. They were forming a cordon; and these London policemen were used to searches in the midst of fog.

None the less, The Shadow outguessed them. Rising from beside the bush, he whispered for Harry to follow. He began to thread a course through the parklike sector, changing direction with uncanny ability.

At times, The Shadow paused and held Harry back, while a searching bobby lumbered by. Then they were on their way again, unnoticed.

The Shadow took an inward course, back toward the spot where they had started; then reversed the trail. He and Harry emerged upon a sidewalk. The Shadow led the way across the street, to a narrow side thoroughfare which he located perfectly despite the fog.

Harry lost all sense of direction as he walked along with his silent companion. It was not until they reached the vicinity of St. James Square that he began to gain an inkling of their location; even then, Harry was somewhat confused.

The Shadow stopped near a street lamp. Harry viewed the features of Lamont Cranston, masklike in the mist.

HARRY had met his chief in this guise, before. He knew, of course, that The Shadow was not the actual Lamont Cranston. The real Cranston was a globetrotter, who cooperated with The Shadow by allowing the latter to assume his guise.

The Shadow had not originally asked such permission; Cranston had once balked about the matter.

Subsequent events, however, had caused the globetrotter to agree upon the procedure. The real Cranston had found it wise to accept The Shadow’s friendship.

“Facts are complete,” remarked The Shadow, quietly, to Harry. “Various persons are concerned, among them one who is playing a double game. That one is The Harvester.”

Harry nodded.

“Lionel Selbrock left London today,” resumed The Shadow, in Cranston’s level tone. “So did Jed Ranworthy. A strange change has come over Justin Craybaw. The Rajah of Delapore has no jewels of value. Instead, his gems are false. He has arranged a bogus sale that will take place tomorrow. The purchaser of the fake gems will be Dawson Canonby.”

Harry blinked in wonderment at the completeness of The Shadow’s information.

“Sometimes,” resumed The Shadow, “it is best to add new complications to those that already exist. Particularly when a new riddle may allow an opportunity to accomplish something of importance. Therefore, Lamont Cranston will disappear temporarily, before tomorrow morning.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“My absence,” added The Shadow, “will prevent me from being at the offices of Rudlow, Limited. You must go there in my stead. Wait until the morning is well advanced; then call at Rudlow’s and ask for Inspector Eric Delka.

“Tell him that you are a friend of Lamont Cranston’s; that you have learned that I am absent from London; that you are concerned over my disappearance. Use every possible pretext to remain with Delka.”

“I understand,” said Harry.

“It is most essential,” concluded The Shadow, “that Justin Craybaw should be watched. Something has occurred that concerns Craybaw; something that Delka does not fully understand. He may suspect, however; therefore it should prove unnecessary to prompt Delka. I feel confident that he will watch Craybaw of his own accord.

“Should he show signs of omitting such duty, it will be your part to inform Delka that the last you heard from me was at midnight, tonight; that I told you to pass the word to him that Craybaw, needed observation.

“Do not, at any time, express too much anxiety for my safety. Just use enough to establish yourself with Delka. No more. My instructions should be plain.”

“They are,” nodded Harry. “You can be sure that I—”

An almost inaudible whisper from The Shadow. Harry broke off his sentence. Footsteps were approaching; a friendly looking bobby loomed from the fog and stared from beneath his helmet.

“Goon evening, constable,” greeted The Shadow, in Cranston’s quiet style. “You are just the chap to aid us. We have lost ourselves in this beastly fog. I am trying to locate St. James Street; my friend wants the underground to Aldgate.”

The bobby grinned until his lips matched the curve of his chin strap.

“You are not the first wayfarers who have asked for directions,” declared the officer. “Well, sir, you have as good as found St. James Street for a beginning. You are on Charles Street, just east of St. James Square. If your friend will walk east to Haymarket, he may turn north, straight to Piccadilly Circus.”

“You can find your way to Aldgate easily enough,” remarked The Shadow to Harry. “Good night, old chap. Ring me in the morning.”

As Harry strolled away, The Shadow thanked the officer, who tipped his fingers to his helmet and resumed his beat. As soon as the bobby had pounded from sight, The Shadow chose his own direction through the fog.

Harry Vincent, groping on toward Piccadilly Circus, remained bewildered as he considered the facts that The Shadow had stated. Harry’s duty was plain; still, it did not explain the circumstances that foreboded coming crime.

Selbrock, Ranworthy, and the Rajah of Delapore — all three seemed oddly concerned. The Shadow had named another: Justin Craybaw; and he had specified that the managing director of Rudlow’s was the chief one to watch.

Why?

Harry could not answer the question. He realized, however, that a game was afoot; that already, a crook known as The Harvester had gained first innings. Four men were involved; one of them must be the master hand of evil.

Such was Harry’s final conjecture as he neared the lights of Piccadilly Circus and headed for the immense underground station. He was still perplexed when he had stopped before a slot machine to buy a ticket that would carry him to Aldgate. Harry’s only consolation was that on the morrow, he might find some one more baffled than himself; namely, Inspector Delka of Scotland Yard.

For Harry Vincent was sure of one fact only. He was positive that The Shadow, alone, could have revealed the depth of the coming game. Only The Shadow, master sleuth, could fathom the ways of so insidious a supercrook as The Harvester.