The Third Skull

CHAPTER IX. THE HEIR ARRIVES

IT was the next evening. Weldon Wingate was seated at the big desk in the office of his penthouse.

Opposite him was Selwood Royce. The young millionaire was reading an evening newspaper.

“Very odd circumstances,” remarked Royce, as Wingate watched him. “Even if there is no connection between this robbery at the pawnshop and—”

Royce broke off. The door had opened from the anteroom. Braddock stood there with an announcement.

“Roger Parchell has arrived?” inquired Wingate. “Show him in, Braddock.”

“It is not Roger Parchell, sir,” returned Braddock. “It is the gentleman who was here yesterday. Mr. Lamont Cranston, sir; and he wants to see you.”

“Show him in,” ordered Wingate, in an irritated tone.

The Shadow entered. Calm in his guise of Lamont Cranston, he noted a certain hostility on the part of Weldon Wingate. Selwood Royce, however, was affable. The young millionaire seemed highly pleased by Lamont Cranston’s arrival.

“We thought you were Roger Parchell,” remarked Royce. “He is due here tonight.”

“Already?” questioned The Shadow, with a trace of surprise: “I thought Roger Parchell was in San Francisco yesterday.”

“He was,” declared Wingate. “I told you that I had wired him there and received a reply that he was coming East at once. This afternoon, Roger called me by long distance from Cincinnati. He had taken a plane from California and had traveled that far east. He is coming in to New York on another fast ship.”

“Excellent,” remarked The Shadow. “I shall be pleased to meet Roger Parchell. Perhaps he will know something about his uncle’s scarab collection.”

Wingate was about to make a caustic remark when the door opened. It was Braddock again; this time to announce that Roger Parchell had arrived. A few moments later, the heir himself entered.

ROGER PARCHELL was a man in his early thirties. Broad-shouldered, with a tanned, square-jawed face, he possessed a ruggedness that smacked of the West. His manner, however, was that of a New Yorker. He shook hands with Wingate; then with the others as the lawyer introduced him.

“Sorry to hear about my uncle’s death,” stated Roger. “He and I were quite remote. Very little in common between us. Except for our occasional correspondence, he was no more than a name to me. But” — the young man paused in a sober manner — “he was my only living relative on my father’s side of the family. That always meant something to me, even if it did not to Uncle Hildrew.”

“It meant enough to him,” rejoined Wingate. “He made you the sole heir to his estate.”

“He did?” queried Roger, in surprise. “That is astonishing! I had thought that he might leave me a small percentage of his wealth. Maybe as high as a hundred thousand dollars. But I never dreamed that I would be the sole heir.”

“You are,” interjected Wingate, “but you have gained a false impression of your uncle’s estate. His total assets — to which you are fully entitled — will not be in excess of fifty thousand dollars!”

Roger Parchell gaped. His face showed an unbelieving stare. He looked from Wingate to the others.

Then he shook his head and laughed.

“I don’t believe it,” he affirmed. “My uncle — with no disrespect to his memory — was a miser. So far as his money is concerned, I can do without it, whatever the amount. I am speaking in purely an impersonal fashion when I say that Uncle Hildrew must have been worth a full million dollars, at the very least.”

“There is no way,” snapped Wingate, “in which any one could estimate the amount of wealth that Hildrew Parchell possessed. I am going only by the records which are in my possession. They are accurate.

“Fifty thousand dollars. His assets totaled that sum. I do agree that it is possible that Hildrew Parchell may have placed certain money elsewhere. But there is no clue to any source where stored wealth might be.”

“Except for this,” interposed The Shadow. His tone was Cranston’s; his smile was slight as he picked up the newspaper that Selwood Royce had been reading. “The jewelry, stolen last night, belonged to Hildrew Parchell.”

“It did not,” retorted Wingate. “That jewelry was in the possession of Channing Tobold. It had been pledged for a paltry sum of five thousand dollars and was probably worth less at present values.”

“But possibly,” added The Shadow, his tone as quiet as before, “worth far more than the amount for which the gems were pawned. Hildrew Parchell could have placed it with the pawnbroker, naming a figure far smaller than the actual worth of the jewels.”

WINGATE glared. Royce shot a keen glance toward The Shadow. Roger Parchell looked puzzled.

“What’s this all about?” inquired the heir. “A robbery? Of jewelry belonging to my uncle? When did it occur?”

“Last night,” replied Royce. “A murder was involved. The newspapers were filled with the accounts of a battle among mobsters.”

“All news to me,” returned Roger. “I have been on the go for two days. You see” — he turned to Wingate — “I was not in San Francisco when your wire came. I had closed my office; a friend happened in there at the time the wire arrived. He called me by long distance in Los Angeles; I told him to send you a wired reply, that I was coming East. Then I took off from Los Angeles by plane.”

“And you read no newspapers?” asked Wingate.

“None today,” returned Roger. “I was asleep when we stopped at Cincinnati. I had time to call you; then we took off and I went to sleep again.”

He reached for the newspaper. Wingate stopped him. Putting the journal to one side, the attorney held up his hand and began to speak.

“Let me explain the circumstances from the beginning,” he suggested. “That, I believe, will clarify all that has happened. First of all, Roger, your uncle’s death was due to heart failure; but circumstances surrounding it were accidental.

“Doctor Raymond Deseurre, your uncle’s physician, stated that death might well have been expected. Your uncle’s condition had long been a serious one. He was in bed when stricken; falling, he overturned a table and a candle set fire to the bedstead. Tristram, your uncle’s servant, extinguished the blaze.”

Wingate paused after this brief statement. He continued with added details.

“A headquarters inspector came to the house,” declared the lawyer. “This man — his name is Cardona — is reputed to be the most competent member of the New York force. He conducted a thorough investigation and finally decided that your uncle’s death had been accidental.

“I had assured Cardona that all of Hildrew Parchell’s documents were in order. He called me yesterday, after I had gone over the original papers, comparing them with duplicates. Cardona was fully satisfied that nothing was amiss.

“Last night, thugs entered an obscure pawnshop owned by an old man named Channing Tobold. Apparently, rival factions attempted to rifle the place at the same time. They battled; mobsters were slain, and Tobold, himself, was killed.

“Police, investigating, found Tobold’s safe opened. They referred to the pawnbroker’s books. There had been nothing of value in the place except a box containing jewels valued at five thousand dollars. That box was gone.

“Detective Cardona was again the acting inspector on the case. On the floor behind Tobold’s counter, he discovered a crumpled list that corresponded with one in the safe. This list named the items in the stolen box. Cardona also learned that the stolen jewelry had once belonged to Hildrew Parchell.”

“My uncle had pawned it with Tobold?” inquired Roger.

“Yes,” replied Wingate. “Discovering that, Cardona came here to see me. I produced the pawn ticket and correspondence between Hildrew Parchell and Channing Tobold. Discussing the matter, Cardona and I agreed that the robbery at the pawnshop was merely a coincidence; that it had nothing to do with your uncle’s death.”

“But,” began Roger, “sometimes coincidences are important—”

“NOT in this case.” interposed Wingate. “Tobold’s pawnshop was an open target for crooks. It was a wonder that they had not attacked it before. Naturally, they took only articles that appeared to be of value. Those jewels were all that were in the place. Moreover, we are sure to learn more about them shortly.”

“How so?” inquired Roger.

“It is obvious,” returned Wingate, “that hoodlums of the crudest type were responsible for the robbery at Tobold’s. Such thieves have no way of obtaining high value, for goods that they purloin.

“They ‘fence’ stolen articles for a small percentage of the actual worth. Where murder is involved with robbery, small-fry crooks were anxious to get rid of their spoils quickly. To use their own parlance, the stuff is ‘hot’ and must be dropped in a hurry.”

“If Mr. Cranston were familiar with ways of criminals” — Wingate paused to stare steadily at his calm-faced visitor — “he would realize that there is nothing complex or mysterious in a pawnshop robbery. I predict” — Wingate was emphatic — “that the gems stolen from Tobold’s will be recovered by the police within one week!

“Then we shall see the folly of the theory that Mr. Cranston has suggested. The police hold complete lists of the stolen items. One list in Hildrew Parchell’s handwriting; the other in Channing Tobold’s. Those lists will identify the gems.”

“I grant you this, however” — Wingate was almost sarcastic — “if the jewelry is not uncovered it may be possible — slightly possible — that others than mere hoodlums were concerned in their theft.”

“If some one suspected that Hildrew Parchell might have stored away unknown wealth; if that same person had learned of the jewelry at Tobold’s; if, again, that individual had suddenly gained the theory that those gems were overrated in value — well” — Wingate paused to smirk — “well, if all those ‘ifs’ were possible, a smart crook might have been behind the robbery at the pawnshop.”

“To such a man, if he existed” — Wingate was wagging a forefinger in emphasis — “five thousand dollars would be a paltry sum. If — a probable ‘if’ — at last, this impossible sort of thief found that the jewelry was worth only the five thousand dollars at which it is rated, he would never attempt to ‘fence’ it. Being a man of brains, he would not run the risk of throwing clues into view.”

“But suppose,” put in Selwood Royce, “the gems were actually worth an immense sum? What would happen then?”

“They would be fenced,” replied Wingate, “probably somewhere else than in New York. And let me tell you this” — the forefinger was still wagging — “the appearance of gems of high value in the open market would attract immediate attention.”

“But why all this foolish speculation?” Wingate laughed as he settled back in his chair and folded both hands. “I have told you that the jewels were trifles. If they do not show up, we shall know that some would-be master crook fooled himself and has destroyed them so that evidence will be lacking.”

“If the jewels are recovered, their low value will be proven and we shall know that common thugs were responsible. This is not my sole opinion. Detective Cardona shares it also. Just as he and I agree upon the matter of what happened here last night.”

“Something happened here?” questioned Royce.

“Yes,” replied Wingate, “A sneak thief came into this office. Braddock surprised the fellow. They had a brief set-to and the thief escaped. There, Mr. Cranston, would be another problem for a sleuth. A connection. Robbery at Tobold’s; attempted theft here.

“But men of fact, like Detective Cardona and myself, know that small-time crime is so prevalent in Manhattan that ninety-nine per cent of supposed connections are no more than coincidences. I told Cardona about a sneak thief being here. We both laughed at the thought of Braddock frightening the rogue away.”

There was a pause; then Wingate arose. In a mild, indulgent tone, the lawyer spoke with finality.

“I DO not blame you for your theory, Cranston,” said Wingate, dryly. “Naturally, you are interested in those scarabs that you believed Hildrew Parchell owned. You would, of course, think that they might have been with the rifled jewelry. But they were not. I saw the bona fide lists. The gems were old family jewelry that had belonged to Hildrew Parchell and his wife. The old man pawned the jewels because he knew Tobold and because he had no place of his own in which to keep them.

“Well, Roger” — Wingate had turned toward the heir — “I had not expected you to come East so promptly. Could you spare a week? It will be that long before your uncle’s estate can be settled.”

“I can stay indefinitely,” replied Roger. “I intend to stop at the Hotel Metrolite. I’m going there right now, to get some sleep.”

“Suppose you come out to Long Island,” suggested Selwood Royce. “Not tonight, for I am not returning there until later. Nor tomorrow, when I shall be busy. But if you can come out the day after tomorrow, you can remain at my home during the rest of your stay.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. “But of course, Royce, I should not want to put you out.”

“You won’t,” chuckled Royce. “You should see my place, Roger. It was my father’s, and he added wings to the house until it became the size of a young hotel. It even has an art gallery, filled with paintings that my father collected.”

“Paintings of much value?” queried Wingate.

“No,” returned Royce. “Father went in for oddities in art. Portraits that look at you wherever you go; faces that seem to smile if you watch them. Bizarre scenes of mobs and executions. The gallery is one of freaks.”

Pausing, Royce turned toward The Shadow.

“The gallery would interest you, Mr. Cranston,” he said. “You have collected curios. Some of these paintings could be placed in that class. Any time you choose, you will be a welcome visitor.

“Some time ago, one of the newspapers called up to arrange an interview with me on the subject of art. I stalled them off; but I suppose if a reporter comes out to see me, I shall have to show him the gallery.”

“Well, Roger, don’t forget that I shall expect you. I have just time” — Royce glanced at his watch — “to keep an appointment at my club. I must be leaving.”

Royce departed; The Shadow, remembering a mythical Cranston appointment, left also. Roger Parchell started at the same time for his hotel. The meeting at Wingate’s was ended.

BENEATH the blue light in his sanctum, The Shadow read reports from his agents. Moe Shrevnitz had recovered his cab. Police had picked it up abandoned as a stolen car. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye were in the underworld, scouring for information concerning dead mobsters.

Harry Vincent had returned to New York. He was at the Hotel Metrolite, his usual headquarters; Roger Parchell had merely chanced to choose the same hotel. Clyde Burke, visiting police headquarters, had learned nothing of importance from Joe Cardona.

The Shadow reached for the earphones on the wall. His whispered voice spoke to Burbank, giving new orders. Every agent had functions to perform; in fact, The Shadow was calling in the services of another man, whom he seldom used, to aid him.

There was reason for The Shadow’s action. In sounding Weldon Wingate, The Shadow had listened while the lawyer had stated possibilities that The Shadow, himself, had already considered. Though The Shadow knew that Homer Hothan had gone to Tobold’s pawnshop in search of hidden wealth, he also realized that those stolen jewels represented a long shot.

The presence of the silver skull ring had evidently prompted both Hothan and the master crook to their fullest effort. Somehow, evil workers had gained some clue to wealth that involved a skull.

Yet the chance still existed that a wrong bet had been made; that the stolen jewelry was of comparatively little value. If so, crime might soon again be rampant. That was why The Shadow was again preparing.

From now on, every person concerned with Hildrew Parchell would be watched by The Shadow. Some of them might need protection. Among the others, there might be one The Shadow wanted.

The big-shot. The man who had hired Homer Hothan. For The Shadow was sure that the hiding ex-secretary was serving a master who had long since gained knowledge concerning the affairs of old Hildrew Parchell.

The unknown crook, slayer of Channing Tobold, had shown himself too bold to leave all to a weakling such as Hothan. The big-shot must be ready to play his own cards when occasion demanded. This, The Shadow knew.