The London Crimes

CHAPTER III. OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

TWO days after the arrival of The Shadow and Eric Delka, an unusual advertisement appeared in the classified columns of the London Times. The announcement was printed under the heading “Personal” and read as follows:

When Eric Delka entered the office of his acting chief, Sidney Lewsham thrust a copy of the Times across the desk. A blue-pencil mark encircled that single paragraph, of all the advertisements that covered the front page. Delka nodded slowly as he read the silver mine offer.

“It sounds like The Harvester,” said Delka. “But it is not in keeping with his technique.”

“Quite true,” returned Lewsham, sourly. “That is the only trouble, Eric. I can not believe that The Harvester would become so bold as to openly flaunt his activities before our faces.”

“A ‘sucker’ game,” remarked Delka. “That is what they would term it in the States. This chap Wadkins, whoever he may be, is out to trap some unsuspecting investor.”

“Yet he is working blindly,” mused Lewsham, “like a spider in the center of a web. I doubt that The Harvester would strive in such fashion, Eric. I can fancy him taking advantage of this announcement, once it had appeared. Yet I cannot picture him inserting the advertisement.”

“Suppose I call there this morning,” suggested Delka. “A chat with Mr. H. B. Wadkins might prove enlightening.”

“Not too hasty, Eric.” Lewsham shook his head. “Wait until the day is more advanced. Make your visit shortly before tea time. He might suspect an early caller.”

Reluctantly, Delka came to agreement with his chief. Somehow, Delka had a hunch that an early visit to Caulding Court might be preferable to a late one.

In that opinion, Delka happened to be correct. Had he gone immediately from Scotland Yard to Caulding Court, he would have obtained a prompt result.

EXACTLY half an hour after Delka had held his conference with Lewsham, a man of military bearing arrived at an arched entryway that bore the sign “Caulding Court.”

The arrival was attired in well-fitted tweeds; he was swinging a light cane as he paused to study the obscure entrance. Tanned complexion, with light hair and sharp, blue eyes — Eric Delka would have recognized the man upon the instant. The arrival was Thomas Dabley, alias Humphrey Bildon, chief lieutenant of The Harvester.

Passing through the archway, the tweed-clad man surveyed various doorways that were grouped about the inner court. He chose the one that was marked H 2. Warily, he entered, to find a young man seated in a small anteroom that apparently served as outer office.

“Mr. Wadkins?” queried the light-haired visitor.

“No, sir,” replied the young man. His gaze was a frank one. “I am secretary to Mr. Wadkins. He is in his private office. Whom shall I announce?”

“Here is my card.” The visitor extended the pasteboard. “I am Captain Richard Darryat, formerly of the Australian-New Zealand Army Corps. Announce my name to Mr. Wadkins.”

The visitor smiled as the secretary entered an inner office. The alias of Darryat suited him better than either Bildon or Dabley, for he looked the part of an Anzac officer. Seating himself, Darryat inserted a cigarette in a long holder. Scarcely had he applied a match before the secretary returned.

“Mr. Wadkins will see you, Captain Darryat.”

Darryat entered the inner office. Behind the table, he saw a hunched, bearded man, whose hair formed a heavy, black shock. Shrewd, dark eyes peered from the bushy countenance. Half rising, H. B. Wadkins thrust his arm across the desk and shook hands with Captain Darryat.

“From Australia, eh?” chuckled Wadkins, his voice a harsh one. “Well, captain, perhaps you know something about silver mines yourself?”

“I do,” replied Darryat, with a slight smile. “As much as most Americans.”

“Wrong, captain,” Wadkins grinned through his heavy beard. “I am a Canadian. Spent a lot of time, though, in the States. That’s how I became interested in Montana silver. I hail from Vancouver. Hadn’t been in London long before an old partner of mine wrote me and sent along his shares in the Topoco Mine. Told me to sell out — so I did.”

“Do you mean that you no longer have shares to offer?”

“That’s about it, captain. They were snapped up pronto, all except a few thousand dollars’ worth. Here is what I have left.”

WADKINS drew a batch of stock certificates from a desk drawer and showed them to Darryat. The fake captain’s eyes lighted. Darryat knew mining stocks. He had recognized the Topoco name.

“Seven thousand dollars’ worth, to be exact,” remarked Wadkins. “Sixty-seven thousand was what I had for a starter. One customer took sixty thousand, cash and carry.”

“Who was he, might I ask?”

Darryat’s question was casual; but it brought a shrewd look from Wadkins. Then the bearded man shook his head.

“I don’t even know the chap’s name,” he declared. “He dealt through a solicitor, who arrived here bright and early. Sorry, but I can’t state the name of the solicitor. All I can do is offer you the seven thousand dollars’ worth of remaining shares.”

“Hardly enough,” mused Darryat. “I, too, represent a prosperous client. I suppose you have no other offerings, Mr. Wadkins?”

“None at all. If I fail to sell these, I shall purchase them myself. I intend to leave London shortly; in fact, I may close the office after to-day, should I make no sale.”

“And if you make a sale—”

“I shall close the office, anyway. By the way, captain, would you be interested in a large purchase of some Canadian gold mine stock?”

“I might be. Who is offering it?”

“A friend of mine in Toronto.” Wadkins was rising, crablike, to hold a hunched position as he spoke.

“See my secretary when you leave. Ask him to give you the Toronto prospectus. It may interest you.”

Darryat nodded. Rising, he shook hands with Wadkins and walked to the outer office. Wadkins followed him and spoke to the young man who served as secretary.

“Find the Toronto prospectus, Vincent,” ordered the bearded Canadian. “Let Captain Darryat have it. Good-by, captain.”

Returning to the inner office, H. B. Wadkins closed the heavy door. Stepping to the desk, he picked up a flat suitcase and opened it. His body straightened, as a soft, whispered laugh issued from his bearded lips. With quick, deft hands, he whisked away his heavy black wig and detached the bushy beard from his chin.

The laugh — the action; both were revelations of identity. The so-called Captain Darryat, whatever his impressions, had failed to guess the true personality that had lain behind that disguise.

H. B. Wadkins was The Shadow!

PACKING his discarded disguise, The Shadow donned hat and coat. His countenance, calm and masklike, was one that Darryat would not have recognized. Nevertheless, The Shadow was taking no chances on an immediate meeting with his recent visitor. There was a rear door to the inner office.

Opening it, The Shadow threaded his way through a narrow passage that led him to another street.

Meanwhile, in the outer office, the secretary was looking for the Toronto prospectus. In so doing, he was playing a game that bluffed Captain Darryat. For Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had his own work to accomplish. He was rummaging through boxes at the bottom of a closet, giving Darryat a chance to look about the office in the meantime.

Upon Harry’s desk was an envelope, one that had been brought by messenger. From it projected a letter. Sliding his body between the desk and the closet, Darryat slid the folded paper from the envelope.

He opened it and quickly read the message.

The letter bore the printed heading: “Cyril Dobbingsworth, Solicitor,” with an address that Darryat recognized. Dobbingsworth’s office was located at the Cheshire Legal Chambers, near Chancery Lane, close to the Temple.

The message, itself, fitted with the story that Darryat had heard. Dobbingsworth had been prepared to buy the silver mine stock for a wealthy client; his note was an announcement of an early call which he intended to make on H. B. Wadkins.

Darryat slid the paper back into the envelope, just as Harry Vincent turned about. The Shadow’s agent had the prospectus that Darryat wanted. It was merely a printed folder from Toronto. Darryat scanned the pages, nodded and thrust the prospectus in his pocket. Turning about, he strode out through Caulding Court.

Upon the desk lay the telltale envelope. Harry Vincent had placed it at an exact angle; the projecting message emerging just one inch. Darryat, in replacing it, had not only edged the paper further in; he had also moved the envelope. Harry knew that the bait had been taken.

The Shadow had not only drawn The Harvester’s advance man to a given spot; he had also supplied him with a lead to follow. The advertisement in the Times had served a purpose that Scotland Yard had not guessed. It was The Shadow’s move to reach The Harvester!