The Third Skull

CHAPTER VI. THE SILVER SKULL

THE SHADOW had chosen Channing Tobold’s pawnshop as his destination. In doing so, he had picked a goal that was far from Weldon Wingate’s. The apartment building where the lawyer lived was in the Fifties, west of Broadway. The old pawnshop was located on the fringe of the lower East Side, below the numbered streets.

A battered brick building, it stood like a skeleton scarecrow upon a poorly lighted corner. A relic of the past; a structure that had survived while those about it had been crumbling. Such was the edifice that Channing Tobold had kept for residence and business.

Located in a forgotten district of Manhattan, where decayed buildings were standing only because their owners had postponed tearing them down, the old pawnshop remained as a landmark of the Nineteenth Century.

Rusted bars showed on the front of dingy windows. Dull light gleamed from grimy panes on the second story where Channing Tobold lived.

It was behind those upper windows that a scene was occurring at the very time when The Shadow was leaving the proximity of Wingate’s apartment.

TWO men formed a strange contrast as they faced each other across a scarred wooden counter in an upstairs office. One was Channing Tobold, a withered old man who was hunched almost double. He was wearing thick-lensed spectacles; his white-haired head was topped with a black skullcap.

His hands cupped to his ears, the old pawnbroker was trying to catch the words that a visitor was uttering. Meanwhile, he eyed the man with partial suspicion. For the customer that Tobold had admitted was a sallow, shrewd-faced individual whom the pawnbroker mistrusted.

Hunched across the counter, the visitor was leaning close to Tobold. Harshly, directly in the old man’s ear, he was announcing his identity, explaining the reason for his visit.

“I’ve told you my name,” he insisted. “It’s Hothan. Homer Hothan. I’ve talked to you over the telephone. Some months ago. I’m Hildrew Parchell’s secretary.”

“Hey?” questioned Tobold sharply. “You say Hildrew Parchell sent you?”

“He couldn’t send me. Hildrew Parchell is dead. Dead! Didn’t you read about it in the newspapers?”

“Dead — Hildrew Parchell dead!” Tobold’s face saddened. The old man mumbled to himself. “My old friend dead.”

“That’s why I’m here,” announced Hothan, making his own tone gloomy. “He wanted me to come here. To talk to you.”

Tobold caught these words. He could hear more readily after he had accustomed himself to the tone of the stranger’s voice. Hothan, too, had changed the pitch of his words. He kept the new modulation, seeing that it was bringing results.

“I came here,” he explained, “to talk to you about some jewels that Hildrew Parchell pawned. Five thousand dollars was their value.”

Old Tobold shook his head. Grief had changed to new mistrust.

“I take no jewels here,” declared the pawnbroker. “I do not want to be robbed. I keep only stock that people will not steal. I am an old man — a poor man—”

“I know that story,” broke in Hothan. “I’ll agree that you don’t take gems as a rule. But you took this lot.”

“Always,” objected Tobold, “I give a ticket. It must be brought to claim whatever has been pawned here.”

“This ticket was lost. That’s why old Parchell told me to come and see you. He thought you would remember me. Look” — Hothan dug into his pocket and brought out a wad of money — “I have the five thousand dollars. That’s as good as a ticket, isn’t it?”

“I need the ticket.”

“But it’s been lost. I tell you. Burned up, in a fire.” Hothan smiled at his own bluff. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Tobold. I can show you something better than the ticket. Bring out that box. I’ll open it for you.”

The pawnbroker stared.

“Come on,” urged Hothan. “I tell you that I’m all right. I’m from Hildrew Parchell. He gave me the combination, and here’s the money. I want to see those gems. I can open the box.”

CHANNING TOBOLD turned about. He went into a little alcove behind the counter and stooped before a safe. He turned the combination. The safe came open.

Hothan could see that the interior was almost empty. But from it, Tobold produced one object: a metal box.

The pawnbroker brought the box to the counter. He laid it there, but kept his hands upon it. He looked up challengingly at Hothan. The sallow-faced man reached down and began to turn dialed letters that controlled the lock of the box.

Carefully, Hothan formed a single word. He pointed to it. Old Tobold leaned forward and studied the combination. He noted the word that Hothan had made. The letters spelled: THYME

“Open the box,” suggested Hothan. The pawnbroker tugged at the lid. It swung upward. Within it lay a glistening array of rings and other jewelry. Brooches and bracelets vied with their sparkles.

“Some belonged to Mrs. Parchell,” remarked Tobold. “She died many years ago. A few of the others — rings, of course — were Hildrew’s. Poor Hildrew. Dead!”

Hothan made no effort to touch any of the jewelry. He was working to gain Tobold’s confidence. He looked warily about. Past the counter was a metal-sheathed doorway, unbolted, that led into the living quarters, where Hothan knew there must be a stairway at the rear.

Behind Hothan was the door through which Tobold had admitted him. It led upstairs from the front door; the steps ended abruptly at the entrance to this room. Tobold had neglected to lock that lower door, a point that pleased Hothan.

Close by the flickering gas jet was a window that opened into a side courtyard. This room could not be seen from either street. Another point that Hothan regarded in his favor.

OLD Tobold was fingering the gems. He pushed some of them aside and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper. Hothan, observing, made comment.

“Are these all the gems?” he inquired. “You are sure Mr. Parchell left no others?”

“This is the list,” returned the pawnbroker, hearing clearly. “In Hildrew Parchell’s own handwriting. See” — he opened the paper and pointed — “twenty-one items. You can check them if you wish. I have my own list, also.”

“I’ll look at the list later.” Hothan was eyeing the gems. “You are sure” — his tone was sharply quizzical — “that these are actually worth redeeming? That their value is in excess of five thousand dollars?”

The pawnbroker shook his head.

“I am an honest man,” he declared. “I took Hildrew Parchell’s word for it when he said that these jewels had been appraised at six thousand dollars. I know little about gems, as I have told you.”

“I allowed him five thousand dollars. But now” — the old man shrugged his shoulders — “now they should be worth less. That is one reason why I must be sure that Hildrew Parchell wanted them.”

“I have told you that he wants them.”

“You have no ticket!”

“But I opened the box!”

“That is not enough. Listen, young man” — Tobold wagged a finger — “Hildrew Parchell had a lawyer. A man named Weldon Wingate. If he wants them and does not have the ticket—”

“I know Wingate,” interrupted Hothan. “I talked with him after Hildrew Parchell died. Wingate told me to come here. I am from him.”

“Mr. Wingate should have come himself. You can come again and bring him with you. But I shall tell him, too, that these jewels are not worth five thousand dollars.”

“You are going on Hildrew Parchell’s say-so?”

“Yes; and because I know that the jewels are worth less today. No, young man. It will not do.”

With these words, the pawnbroker started to close the box. Hothan, clutching his wad of money, was almost ready to yield to persuasion. Then, suddenly, he stopped Tobold’s hand.

“Let me look at the jewelry,” he pleaded. “So I can report to Wingate and save him the trouble of a trip here.”

“Very well,” acceded Tobold. “You can see the gems.”

TOBOLD lifted the half-closed lid. Hothan began to pick out different articles, laying them one by one upon the counter. Like Tobold, he claimed no knowledge of gem values. Hothan could not guess whether this jewelry was cheap, or immensely valuable. But as he came toward the end of the lot, Hothan’s eyes became suddenly fixed as his fingers lifted a heavy silver ring from the box.

The ring was shaped like a signet. Its bulge formed a skull with red, ruby eyes. Hothan’s hands trembled with eagerness as he raised the ring to the light!

Tobold, suspicious, reached forth with a withered hand. Hothan stepped back; his gaze was venomous.

“You thought you’d trick me!” he spat. “You thought I wouldn’t know the real value of these gems. You, a pawnbroker, claiming that you don’t know what jewelry is worth!”

“What I told you was true,” Tobold. “Come, young man! That ring!”

“Not a chance,” sneered Hothan, stepping back. “I’m taking this ring; and the other jewelry with it. I’ll tell you why.” He held up the tiny silver skull so that Tobold could see its red eyes. “I’m looking for the wealth that lies with the skull. With the skull, do you understand?”

Tobold was scowling from the counter. Again the old man shot out a preventing hand. Hothan jeered.

“Your bluff didn’t work,” he told the pawnbroker. “But mine did. You thought I didn’t know. Wealth with the skull. You thought I’d muff it. Say” — Hothan’s gaze narrowed — “maybe you didn’t know yourself! Maybe old Parchell did kid you about this stuff!”

Tobold, quavering, was staring in perplexity. His right hand, faltering, was digging down beneath the counter.

Hothan, snarling, grabbed money and ring in his left hand while he shot his right into his coat pocket. His fist came out of the pocket with a glimmering .32.

“No, you don’t!” snapped Hothan, covering Tobold with the revolver. “Stick up your paws, old codger! Maybe you’re smarter than I thought, fishing for a gun like that. Maybe you do know what this skull means, what it meant to old Parchell.”

Tobold, trembling, had no reply. His face was white beneath the black skullcap.

“But I’ll tell you what this skull ring means to you,” snarled Hothan. “It means curtains! If I hadn’t thought this stuff was worth while, I’d have left it here. That’s why I didn’t mind telling you my real name.

“Now that I figure it’s worth thousands, I’m taking no chances. You’re going out” — he gestured with the .32 — “and I’m leaving in a hurry. This dough was a bluff to make you show the sparklers.”

Thrusting his left hand into his coat pocket, Hothan left the wad of money there. He brought out the same hand, still holding the silver skull ring. He used his right to thrust his revolver between Tobold’s eyes. At the same time, he raised the ring so that the red eyes of the death’s head were directly in the pawnbroker’s view.

“Death!” sneered Hothan. “Death for you! See those red eyes? Keep watching them; they’re the last sight you’re going to see. This skull—”

Hothan stopped short. His gun muzzle wavered. Slowly, it sagged away from the bridge of Tobold’s nose. A startling sound, a terrifying tone, had halted the murderer in his quest for new killing. Startled, Hothan was staring at the door beyond the counter.

The unbolted barrier had opened. There, upon the fringe of blackness, stood a shrouded figure clad in black.

BURNING eyes were fixed on Homer Hothan. The murderer quivered. His gun dropped from his hand and thudded to the counter. Then the skull ring fell from his nerveless fingers.

Tiny ruby eyes sparkled upward from the silver skull. Hothan did not see them. He had forgotten his prize; he was backing away in terror from the menace that confronted him.

Burning eyes were fierce as they gazed from beneath a hat brim. The muzzle of an automatic loomed from a black fist that was thrust from the folds of a sable-hued coat. Just as the red eyes in the silver skull were insignificant compared to those burning optics, so was Hothan’s discarded .32 puny in comparison to this huge .45.

Stark terror had gripped Homer Hothan. He was faced by the enemy who made men of evil tremble.

Caught on the verge of a new murder, Hothan was helpless before the power of The Shadow. The killer’s new crime was thwarted.

The Shadow had arrived in time. Speeding to the spot where he believed danger lay, the master of vengeance had entered to dominate the scene.