The Third Skull

CHAPTER IV. WINGATE’S VISITORS

IT was late the next afternoon. Weldon Wingate was seated at a large desk in a room that was equipped as an office. This room formed a portion of the attorney’s large apartment. A consulting lawyer, Wingate had arranged a penthouse as both office and living quarters.

The door of the office opened. A dreary-faced man entered carrying a sheaf of papers. He laid these on the desk, then spoke to Wingate.

“A gentleman is here, sir,” declared the man. “His name is Lamont Cranston. He wishes to see you.”

Wingate cocked his gray head and peered at the informant through his horn-rimmed spectacles. The lawyer had heard of Lamont Cranston, the millionaire globe-trotter.

“What does he wish to see me about, Braddock?” queried Wingate. “Did Mr. Cranston state the purpose of his visit?”

“Not exactly, sir. He said that it concerned the death of old Mr. Parchell.”

“Show Mr. Cranston in, Braddock.”

THE visitor who entered the office a few minutes later was tall and of distinguished appearance.

Weldon Wingate saw Lamont Cranston as a man whose features were as chiseled as those of a statue.

There was something hawklike about Cranston’s expression; and the mold of his face was accentuated by the immobility of his features.

Wingate noted the glimmer of keen eyes that peered from the masklike visage. The light lessened as the visitor shook hands in a leisurely fashion.

Cranston appeared blase as he seated himself opposite the white-haired attorney. This lethargic action caused Wingate’s shrewd inspection to end.

The lawyer did not suspect that he was face to face with that incredible being known as The Shadow.

The guise of Lamont Cranston was one that The Shadow had practiced to perfection. Wingate was still wondering what had brought the visitor here but he was lulled by The Shadow’s manner.

“Is there something, Mr. Cranston,” inquired Wingate, “that you wish to know about the estate of Hildrew Parchell? Or do you have information that might be of interest to me?”

“Both.” The Shadow pronounced the word in a quiet effortless tone. “It happens, Mr. Wingate, that I was once acquainted with Hildrew Parchell.”

There was doubt in Wingate’s quizzical air. The Shadow appeared not to notice it.

“As a traveler,” resumed The Shadow, “I am also a collector of rare curios. Some few years ago, I learned that Hildrew Parchell owned a collection of Egyptian scarabs. I was anxious to purchase them, so I discussed that matter with Parchell.”

“Just where,” questioned Wingate, “did you visit Hildrew Parchell?”

The lawyer’s smooth question was a trapping one. The Shadow countered it with a slight smile.

“Hildrew Parchell came to see me,” he responded, in the tone of Cranston. “He had heard of my collection of scarabs. He called me by telephone, introduced himself, and arranged a visit to my home. It was there that he told me of the scarabs which he owned.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I disremember. My trips abroad are so frequent and so varied that I find it difficult to recall my meetings with different persons. The point, Mr. Wingate, is that Hildrew Parchell made it emphatic that he intended to keep his scarabs. That is why I have come to see you. Should the scarabs be in the possession of the estate, I should like to be the first bidder when they are offered for sale.”

WINGATE nodded slowly. The lawyer was evidently undergoing a complexity of thought. He rubbed his chin in meditation; then spoke frankly and directly.

“Mr. Cranston,” he declared, “I am in possession of all of Hildrew Parchell’s papers and correspondence. I have duplicates as well as the originals that were at his home. The originals were brought here last night by Parchell’s servant.

“I have checked the duplicates with the originals. They correspond. I know all the details of Hildrew Parchell’s estate. He owned no Egyptian scarabs.”

“Quite odd,” mused The Shadow.

“That Hildrew Parchell owned no scarabs?” inquired Wingate.

“No,” returned The Shadow. “The oddity is that you should know all the details of Hildrew Parchell’s estate.”

“I was his attorney.”

“Yes; but Hildrew Parchell was immensely wealthy. It seems impossible that all his affairs could be remembered in full detail.”

Wingate smiled dryly.

“You are wrong, Mr. Cranston,” he insisted. “Hildrew Parchell was not wealthy. Fifty thousand dollars would be a high estimate for the value of his estate.

The Shadow’s gaze was penetrating. It was his turn to show doubt. Wingate noticed it and became uneasy.

“Perhaps,” observed The Shadow, calmly, “the missing scarabs may be the key to other wealth. Possibly Hildrew Parchell had more than his visible estate.”

Wingate shifted his gaze. He drummed the desk in meditative fashion. At last he spoke, looking directly at his visitor.

“I believe that you are right, Mr. Cranston,” declared the lawyer, frankly. “I tried to turn you from the trail, because I felt that it would be unwise to express my opinions to a stranger. But since you have already formed your own conclusion, I can see no harm in stating my own.

“I presume, of course, that you read of Hildrew Parchell’s sudden death in the morning newspapers. Though Parchell had not anticipated death so soon, the circumstances of his passing were not startling, in view of his condition. It is possible, however, that death may have prevented him from giving me added information regarding his possessions.

“You are right, Mr. Cranston, when you state the belief that Hildrew Parchell should have been worth far more than fifty thousand dollars. He was something of a miser; it is possible that he may have stored away a considerable mass of wealth.”

Wingate paused; then added:

“As Hildrew Parchell’s attorney, it is my duty to institute a search for such hidden funds and to bestow that wealth, if found, upon the person or persons entitled to it.”

Again Wingate paused. The Shadow spoke.

“I suppose, Mr. Wingate,” he inquired, in Cranston’s tone, “that you have already evolved a plan of search?”

“I have,” assured Wingate. “Hildrew Parchell had certain friends and associates. I intend to write them in reference to this matter. Their names are at my disposal. They were in Hildrew Parchell’s files.”

“Persons like myself?” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “Ones who had certain contact with Hildrew Parchell?”

“Not chance acquaintances,” returned Wingate, emphatically. “The persons to whom I refer, Mr. Cranston, are those with whom Hildrew Parchell had actual correspondence. They are few — very few — in number. I do not feel at liberty to reveal their names.”

WITH this declaration, Wingate arose. He extended his hand to the visitor.

“I thank you, Mr. Cranston,” said the attorney, “for informing me about the matter of the scarabs. Should we uncover hidden possessions belonging to Hildrew Parchell, we may find the scarabs among them. If so, I shall have the heir notify you.”

“The heir?” questioned The Shadow.

“Yes,” replied Wingate. “Roger Parchell, the old man’s nephew. I have wired him in San Francisco. I received a reply that he is leaving for the East today.”

The door opened as The Shadow was shaking hands with Wingate. Braddock entered; behind him was a quiet-looking, well-dressed man of about thirty. The visitor stepped past Braddock. Wingate pursed his lips in annoyed fashion, realizing that he would have to make an introduction.

“Mr. Cranston,” said the lawyer, “this is Mr. Royce. His father was a friend of Hildrew Parchell.”

“Lamont Cranston?” inquired Royce, with interest. “I have heard of you, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“I have heard of Selwood Royce,” returned The Shadow, extending his hand. “The privilege of meeting is a mutual one.” Then, to Wingate: “I see that you have an appointment with Mr. Royce. I am glad to have met you, Mr. Wingate. Let me know if anything turns up regarding the scarabs.”

AS soon as The Shadow had departed, Wingate turned to Royce. The lawyer requested Royce to be seated; then stated that he would return within a few minutes.

Leaving his office, Wingate passed into a hallway, then continued hastily into the living room of the penthouse apartment.

Closing the door behind him, Wingate pounced upon a telephone. He called the lobby of the apartment house and asked for Hastings. Another voice came over the wire. Wingate spoke rapidly.

“A man is coming downstairs, Hastings,” informed the lawyer. “Tall, with distinguished features. Lamont Cranston, a millionaire. Trail him.”

An affirmative response came from the receiver. Wingate hung up and returned to the office to rejoin Royce. The young man had a prompt question.

“What was Cranston doing here?” he inquired. “Something concerning Hildrew Parchell?”

“So he claimed,” returned Wingate, dryly. “He said that he had once tried to buy some scarabs from Hildrew Parchell.”

“I did not know that Parchell was a collector of such curios.”

“Nor did I. But I do know, Royce, that Parchell may have hidden a certain amount of wealth before his death. It might be in jewels — in cash — or in rarities.”

“Such as scarabs?”

“Such objects might be among the hidden wealth. Understand, Royce, I do not say that Hildrew Parchell did bury a large amount of wealth. I say merely that he may have hidden certain valuables or funds. That is why I called your home to ask if you could stop here to see me.”

“In hope that I might furnish some clue?”

“Exactly. Hildrew Parchell was a close friend of your father’s.”

“But my own acquaintance with Hildrew Parchell was decidedly limited. No, I know of no such matter. I had not even suspected the existence of such wealth.”

Wingate was studying the young man steadily. There was a tone of sincerity in Royce’s voice. Wingate terminated the subject.

“Very well,” he decided. “There are others with whom I shall communicate. I doubt, however, that it will lead to tangible results. Probably the funds are imaginary.”

“If they exist,” questioned Royce, suddenly, “would they go to Roger Parchell?”

“The nephew is the only heir.” admitted Wingate. “The will, however, is unusually specific. It declares each item of Hildrew Parchell’s known estate and names Roger Parchell as beneficiary in every case.

“If other possessions are uncovered, they would go to Roger Parchell in absence of other heirs or instructions concerning disposal of such hidden funds. Inasmuch as Roger Parchell is his uncle’s only living relation, it is safe to assume that the wealth would be Roger’s.”

“I should like to meet young Roger Parchell,” observed Royce. “The friendship between my father and his uncle would indicate that a friendship between myself and Roger would be in order.”

“Quite true. I shall arrange the meeting, Royce. Your friendship should prove quite acceptable to Roger Parchell.”

Selwood Royce made his departure. Wingate watched him stroll from the room. The lawyer smiled dryly. He had learned all that he had needed to know from Selwood Royce.

Braddock entered. He announced that Hastings was phoning from downstairs. Wingate hastened through the hallway. He was eager as he made query over the wire. Then the lawyer’s expression became irritable.

“What’s that?” he demanded. “You lost the trail? Incredible, Hastings… I said incredible… No, no. Do not resort to an excuse. It was broad daylight… Do you expect me to believe such folly, Hastings? A man could not have vanished right before your eyes… Here one moment, gone the next — a poor excuse for blundering, Hastings!”

Irritated, Wingate hung up the receiver. He stalked from the living room and reentered his office. He went to a large safe, opened it and brought out a flat box that bore the title: “Documents — Hildrew Parchell.”

Seating himself behind the desk, Wingate unlocked the box and began to go over papers. After a short interval, he paused to fume about the inefficiency that Hastings had displayed. Then the attorney resumed his work. He began to forget about Lamont Cranston’s visit.

ELSEWHERE, other hands were going over papers. The Shadow was in his sanctum. As Lamont Cranston, he had spotted Hastings following him. Artfully, he had given the fellow the slip.

Here in his secret abode, The Shadow was reading a coded message that had come through an investment broker named Rutledge Mann.

A report from Harry Vincent. The agent had reached the town of Chalwood. There, he had learned that Homer Hothan had left the town a few weeks ago. The man was supposed to be in Chicago; but he had left no forwarding address.

A soft laugh came from The Shadow. Deductions were bringing results. The Shadow inscribed a coded note and sealed it in an envelope. The bluish light clicked off. The Shadow had work to do this evening.

His mission, however, lay here in New York. Though Weldon Wingate had partially forgotten Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had not forgotten Weldon Wingate.