The Third Skull

CHAPTER XVII. ON LONG ISLAND

THREE men were sipping cordials at a massive dinner table. A butler was removing dishes while they chatted. This trio had finished an excellent meal in the quiet surroundings of an oak-paneled dining room.

Selwood Royce was the host; his two companions were Roger Parchell and Clyde Burke.

“Well, Burke,” queried Royce, with a pleasant smile, “have I made amends for last night’s error?”

“You have,” replied Clyde, with a chuckle. “But I still maintain that I didn’t intend to breeze in here just before dinner time. I came out to see the art gallery.”

“And I invited you to have dinner first. You will have ample time to view the paintings later. Particularly” — Royce paused to listen — “because of the storm that is breaking. It seems that we are due for a prolonged downpour.”

Heavy rain patter was increasing as Royce spoke. A storm had been threatening all day. At last, it was coming in heavily from Long Island Sound. Out here, on Long Island, the deluge had arrived and was sweeping in toward Manhattan.

“Well,” decided Clyde, “I have only this one assignment for the evening. I’m in no rush to get back to New York, Mr. Royce. As long as I’m not intruding—”

“You can stay here as long as you like, Burke. All night if you wish. There’s room enough in this mansion for a regiment.”

CLYDE smiled as he lighted a cigarette. This was to his liking. He had been sent here by The Shadow, with instructions to arrive early and stay late. At any time, he could communicate with Burbank by faking a telephone call to the Classic office.

Clyde knew that The Shadow expected trouble to strike this mansion. Perhaps not as early as tonight, but eventually. Rather than start with too close a vigil, The Shadow had relied on Clyde to keep a lookout until later.

“You are sure that Wingate will be here, Roger?” inquired Royce, turning to young Parchell. “What did he have to say the last time he called you up?”

“Wingate is on his way,” replied Roger. “That last call was from his secretary; that chap Braddock. He said that Wingate had been delayed, but had finally started. He has to go somewhere, though, before he comes here. So he may be later than we expected.”

Clyde Burke looked inquisitive. Selwood Royce noticed it and smiled.

“Weldon Wingate called before you arrived,” explained the millionaire. “He talked with Roger and said that he was coming out. This matter of the Parchell estate seems to weigh heavily on his mind.”

“It should,” smiled Clyde.

“I have an idea” — Royce looked at Clyde closely — “that you heard something of that discussion at Morth’s this morning.”

“I heard all of it,” acknowledged Clyde, frankly, “but it’s not going in the Classic. I promised Cardona I’d lay off until he had a chance to nab this fellow Hothan.”

“That’s fine of you, Burke,” commended Roger. “I thought that ethics had just about disappeared from the journalistic profession. Your attitude, however convinces me that I was incorrect in that belief.”

“It wasn’t ethics,” chuckled Clyde. “It was just good judgment. I’ll pass up half a story any time, if it will help me get the inside track on a full story later.”

Both Royce and Roger laughed.

“Since you’ve brought up the subject,” resumed Clyde, “and since you know I’m not spilling it, why not give me your slant on it? The whole works will break some time. I want to be posted when it does.”

“Well,” decided Royce, “I hope, on Roger’s account, than this wealth of his uncle’s is more than mythical. If it exists, it’s Roger’s. He was the sole heir to the estate. There are no other relatives.”

“Which is fortunate,” remarked Roger, dryly. “Uncle Hildrew always classed me as a ‘wastrel,’ to use one of his own pet terms. If there had been any one else in the family, they might have had first share.

“As it is, I believe my uncle wanted to have a jest with me. I always thought that his estate must be worth a half million at least. But the evidence in his files points to fifty thousand as the limit.

“I am inclining to the belief that this supposed treasure is a double hoax. I think that Uncle Hildrew exaggerated matters just to disappoint me. In keeping with his plan, he probably fed some false information to his secretary, Hothan.”

“Before he discharged Hothan?” queried Clyde.

“Probably,” answered Roger. “Naturally, when Uncle Hildrew died, Hothan started out to look for the treasure himself. Apparently, Hothan is a crook of the worst sort.”

ROGER PARCHELL paused. Selwood Royce took up the comment.

“Your theory is excellent, Roger,” stated the young millionaire. “Your uncle trusted Hothan at one time. He could easily have decided that the man would start talking after his death and thus start a treasure hunt. But I do not believe that the trail is blind. I feel sure that the wealth exists.”

“Why so?”

“Because of your uncle’s actions on the evening of his death. Why should he have told Tristram to summon me to his home?”

“Your father was his friend. He wanted to meet you, Selwood.”

“Certainly. But he must have had a reason. Look at it this way, Roger. Your uncle had talked to Hothan — unwisely — but he had not said too much. He later decided that Hothan was not trustworthy. He wanted a new confidant. So he sent for me.”

“He had Wingate—”

“To handle his apparent estate, yes. But he probably believed that Wingate would not approve of hiding wealth in an eccentric fashion. That’s why he never talked to Wingate.”

“There was Doctor Deseurre.”

“His physician, only. And Deseurre is a rather cagey bird Roger. I couldn’t fancy myself giving him sole access to important information. As for Tristram, he was nothing but a poor old servant. Faithful in small matters; but a dubious confidant.”

Selwood Royce sat back in his chair. Roger Parchell looked unconvinced. Clyde Burke took up the theme.

“Let me get this complete, Mr. Royce,” suggested the reporter. “Your theory is that Hildrew Parchell wanted to give you the details of where his wealth was hidden. That he wanted Wingate — and perhaps Deseurre — to be there as witnesses.”

“That’s right,” acknowledged Royce.

“And Hothan was to be completely out?” inquired Clyde.

“Absolutely,” affirmed Royce. “More than that, Hildrew Parchell may have expected trouble from the fellow. He may have known that Hothan would be waiting until his death to start a search for the buried funds. Hildrew Parchell wanted us to start first.”

All this was frankly put. It was good logic. Royce’s statement brought a lull in the conversation. For half a minute, nothing was heard except the torrential downpour of the rain. Then Roger Parchell spoke, almost wearily.

“Hothan was hoaxed,” declared the heir. “He stole jewelry from Tobold’s pawnshop, to find it comparatively valueless. He raided Morth’s study and was fooled by a crazy trap that the old professor had devised. A silver skull — a mechanical skull — both look like bluffs that my uncle knew about. I refuse to be humbugged by belief in treasure that does not exist.

“I shall stay here a few days, Selwood. After that, I shall collect my heritage from Wingate and return to California. Perhaps I may prolong my visit to a week. But one thing is certain: I shall give up all thought of this ridiculous treasure hunt. That is final.”

SELWOOD ROYCE smiled. Something was passing in his mind. Clyde Burke watched intently. Royce spoke.

“Suppose, Roger,” said the millionaire, “that I told you where the treasure might be. Would that interest you?”

“I’m going to no more trouble—”

“But this will require none. It is worth a gamble. I believe that the wealth is somewhere in this mansion.”

Roger Parchell looked incredulous. Clyde Burke became intensely interested. Selwood Royce vouchsafed an explanation.

“Tobold and Morth,” declared the millionaire, “were close friends of your uncle. I was merely a name; your uncle knew my father. Why, then, if he wanted a confidant, did he choose me in preference to Tobold or Morth?”

Neither Roger nor Clyde replied. Royce answered the question himself.

“There is only one deduction.” he declared. “Your uncle must have entrusted his wealth to my father’s keeping. Or perhaps he stored it secretly, knowing it would be under my father’s protection. That was why your uncle sent for me.”

“No,” rejoined Parchell, wearily. “Listen, Selwood, if this is not a hoax, my uncle must have told facts to Hothan originally. We have evidence that Hothan was looking for a skull. Tobold had one; so did Morth.”

“Yes, the skull is a clue. But—”

“So good a clue, that if you had such an object here, you would already have remembered the fact. But you have mentioned nothing of the sort. So that eliminates these premises.”

“The skull,” mused Royce. “That’s true, Roger. The skull is the clue. But since we intend to search this place anyway, that merely becomes a detail. I have already determined, Roger, that we shall go through this house from top to bottom until we have uncovered every cranny.”

“A huge task, Selwood,” commented Roger. “A great deal of trouble—”

“None at all. I have half a dozen servants. There are all sorts of rooms in this mansion. I pointed that fact out to you this afternoon. The north wing, for instance, is entirely closed. I, myself, do not know what the place begins to contain. Come, Roger — when shall we begin?”

The question was pointed. It roused Roger Parchell from his lethargy. The heir considered.

“I confess I’m beginning to be interested, Selwood,” he asserted. “Suppose we take that motor-boat trip tomorrow, on the Sound. We’ll be back the next day. I’ll be pepped up. Then we can map up our plans for the search.”

“I should like to begin tonight,” declared Royce. “At the same time, there is no need for rush. You are right, Roger, the boat trip will put us in fettle. Then we can—”

Royce paused as the butler entered. He came to announce that Mr. Wingate had arrived. The lawyer was ushered in a minute later.

Wingate nodded a greeting; then proceeded to wipe his spectacles.

“A terrific storm out.” he declared. “I pulled my car up under your side portico to keep it out of the wet. Then I came around to the front.”

WINGATE donned his glasses. For the first time he noted Clyde Burke. The lawyer stared suspiciously at the reporter. Then, in an irritated tone, he said:

“A call from a client delayed me. I don’t think I would have come out at all had I known that the storm would strike. After all, there is nothing of importance. What do you gentlemen think?”

“We have just planned to search this house,” announced Royce. “I believe that Hildrew Parchell’s wealth may be hidden here.”

Wingate’s sour smile was dubious.

“When do you intend to begin this wild-goose chase?” inquired the lawyer.

“In a few days,” replied Royce.

Wingate was about to make a statement. Suddenly he felt in his pockets. He arose from the chair that he had taken.

“I must go out to the car again,” he stated. “Is there a side door to the portico? I have forgotten some minor papers that I want Roger to sign. They are in the car.”

“Turn left in the hall,” pointed Royce. “The door to the portico is bolted from the inside. You can open it.”

As Wingate left, Royce arose. He turned to Clyde; then to Roger.

“Suppose we visit the art gallery,” suggested the millionaire. “Mr. Wingate can join us there.”

They left the dining room by another door. Royce instructed the butler where to send Wingate. They passed through a hallway where an exit led to a veranda. Clyde noticed that this door was bolted. Royce made a turn in the hall; Clyde followed; Roger, lighting a cigarette, came along in leisurely fashion.

Royce opened a door that led to a short flight of stairs. He pressed a light switch; a glow came from the top of the steps. They went up to a passage at the top, where Royce turned on another light. Then came footsteps on the stairs behind them. They turned, expecting to see Wingate. Instead, it was the butler.

“Another guest has arrived, sir,” the man announced to Royce. “He said you did not expect him—”

“Who is it, Talbot?”

“A Mr. Lamont Cranston, sir—”

“Show him here at once, Talbot! And be sure to tell Mr. Wingate where we are.”

Clyde and Roger waited with Royce at the head of the stairs. A minute passed; then footsteps approached. Wingate was here, carrying a small document case. Then came other footsteps. The tall form of Lamont Cranston appeared upon the stairs.

Selwood Royce shook hands with the unexpected guest. Then, with a gesture, he pointed to the passage that led to the art gallery. The group was ready to view the collection of paintings that Royce had gained as a legacy from his father.