The Triple Trail

CHAPTER XI CRIME DISCUSSED

AT ten o’clock the next morning, a limousine stopped in front of Silas Tilton’s brownstone home. Other cars were parked there already; the chauffeur of the limousine was forced to draw up behind them. That done, he alighted and opened the rear door of the limousine. He spoke to a languid passenger who was half dozing in the back seat.

“This is our destination, Mr. Cranston,” stated the chauffeur.

The passenger sat up. A slight smile appeared upon his thin lips. He stepped leisurely from the limousine, looked about and pointed down the street.

“Park over there, Stanley,” he told the chauffeur, “and wait for me. I do not believe that I shall be here long.”

With almost idling gait, The Shadow ascended the steps and rang the same doorbell that he had approached the night before. But his manner today was different. He was carrying his pretended guise to the limit — ready to play the full part of Lamont Cranston, millionaire who took life comfortably and without hurry.

The Shadow’s ring was answered promptly. Not by Perkins, but by a bulky chap who was obviously a plainclothes man. He growled a challenge; The Shadow responded by quietly naming himself as Lamont Cranston. The dick nudged his thumb inward.

“Go on upstairs,” he remarked. “The commissioner said to send you up.”

Strolling up to the second floor, The Shadow found a group of four persons assembled in Tilton’s filing room. Tilton himself was there; also Perkins, the butler. Detective Joe Cardona was also present. The last man of the group was a dynamic, military-looking man who wore a sharply pointed mustache.

This was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The important official swung about as The Shadow entered. Recognizing the hawk-like face, he advanced with extended hand. For Ralph Weston acknowledged Lamont Cranston as a friend.

“HELLO, Cranston,” greeted the commissioner. “I’m glad you finally arrived here. We’ve been discussing last night’s business.”

“Which I was fortunate enough to avoid,” returned The Shadow, in an easy dry tone that suited the character of Cranston. “I saw the account of the battle in the morning newspaper. Unfortunate, Mr. Tilton,” — he turned to the old collector — “that your guest was slain in the struggle. What was the chap’s name? Wickford?”

“Wickroft,” corrected Weston. “But there was nothing unfortunate about that, Cranston. The fellow was a crook.”

“Indeed! That is surprising news. I saw nothing to that effect in the morning papers.”

“We managed to keep it from the press, until after we looked into the case. We couldn’t suppress the fact, though, that Wickroft was Stanton Treblaw’s secretary. And the newspapers have scented a link between the two cases.”

“Most interesting, commissioner.”

A pause. Weston turned to Cardona. He asked what questions the detective had. Cardona turned to The Shadow.

“I had a hunch, Mr. Cranston,” he said, “that you might have spotted something wrong hereabouts. Mr. Tilton tells us that you left just after Wickroft arrived. Did you notice anyone lurking about outside?”

“No one,” replied The Shadow.

“Did this man Wickroft look at all phony to you?” quizzed the detective.

“I saw him for only a few minutes,” replied The Shadow.

“Then,” added Joe, “there’s nothing you observed that might help us?”

The Shadow did not answer the question. He looked about the room for a moment; then responded:

“Perhaps I might recall something if you would first tell me exactly what occurred after my departure. It would enable me to visualize the circumstances.”

“An excellent thought,” put in Weston. “Well, Cranston, we are dependent entirely upon one witness — Mr. Tilton. It appears that he brought Wickroft to this room, to examine a box that had once contained manuscripts belonging to Stanton Treblaw.

“While they were here, four men came in by the rear door. They covered Tilton and Wickroft. Then shots broke out from the side door. Those shots were aimed at the crooks.”

“By whom?” inquired The Shadow, casually.

“By an unknown rescuer,” stated Weston. “By a personage whom Tilton described as a being in black. As you perhaps know, Cranston, the police now recognize the existence of a cloaked fighter who styles himself The Shadow. From Tilton’s description, it must have been The Shadow who made the rescue.”

“Most interesting!” exclaimed The Shadow. “But it was unfortunate that this rescuer should have allowed Wickroft to be slain.”

“I told you that Wickroft was a crook,” retorted Weston. “He proved that fact by trying to overpower The Shadow. But he lost out in the struggle.”

“And how did the battle end?”

“One of the ruffians escaped.” It was Tilton, now, speaking for himself. “Then a mustached man bobbed in at the door. He fired, at the rescuer — this person the commissioner calls The Shadow — and fled after delivering one wild shot.”

“And The Shadow?” inquired The Shadow.

“He pursued the mustached intruder,” declared Tilton.

Another pause. Then Weston summarized.

“OF the three dead crooks,” he declared, “we identified one as a man called Crawler Clane. We have an idea that the thug who escaped was Duster Shomak, an associate of Crawler’s. But as to the identity of the mustached man — there we have no clue. We simply suspect him as being the real leader of the raid.”

A quizzical expression appeared upon the countenance of Lamont Cranston. The commissioner explained.

“Wickroft made an ante-mortem statement,” he said. “He spoke of a chief whose name he did not know. He gave a brief description that fitted with Mr. Tilton’s sketch of the mustached man who fired the last shot at The Shadow.”

“Any opinions, Mr. Cranston?” put in Cardona, as Weston concluded.

“Nothing that gives me any new light on my observations,” answered The Shadow. “You say that you have gained no clue to the name of the man who appeared at the door?”

“None at all,” stated Weston. “But we have an idea what the fellow was after.”

“Treblaw’s manuscript?”

“Yes, Wickroft mentioned the name ‘Cellini’ just before he died. Mr. Tilton thinks that he referred to the manuscript that Treblaw left. Some authentic work of Benvenuto Cellini’s, here in this safe.”

“Left it here?”

“Until two days ago. Then he came and took it away while Mr. Tilton was not here.”

“Then it was stolen from Treblaw’s room in the Hotel Goliath?”

“Hardly, because if the crooks found it there, they would not have come for it here.”

Another pause; then Cardona asserted himself.

“Here’s what it looks like,” declared the ace detective for the benefit of all listeners. “This manuscript you’ve been talking about must have been worth something. Am I right?”

“A fair sum,” interposed Tilton. “There are a number of Cellini manuscripts in existence. It all depends on which one Treblaw may have owned.”

“Well, it was worth something, anyway,” decided Cardona. “And crooks murdered Treblaw but didn’t get it. So they came here, thinking he had left it in your safe, Mr. Tilton. They’d have murdered you, if it hadn’t been for The Shadow.”

Tilton nodded soberly.

“And what we’ve got to find out” — Joe rammed a fist against the top of the filing cabinet — “is who that one guy was. The fellow with the mustache. I’d give plenty to know that fellow’s name.”

“Perhaps,” began The Shadow, “you might—”

He paused. A telephone had begun to ring. Cardona answered it; then handed the telephone to The Shadow.

“For you, Mr. Cranston,” informed the detective; “Cobalt Club calling.”

“I told them they could reach me here,” acknowledged The Shadow; then, taking the telephone, he stated: “Mr. Cranston speaking.”

“Burbank,” came a quiet voice.

“PROCEED,” ordered The Shadow.

“Report from Vincent.” Burbank’s tones, almost silky, could not be heard away from the receiver. “Kelk has returned to his apartment. Admitted by the servant who remained there. Vincent is on duty.”

“Very well,” said The Shadow. “I shall call him when I come to the club. Thank you.”

Hanging up the receiver, The Shadow assumed the slight smile that befitted Lamont Cranston.

“A friend of mine has just returned to town,” he remarked. “I shall have to see him shortly. Well, commissioner, I’m sorry that I could be of no appreciable service.”

Behind his nonchalant mask, The Shadow had been thinking keenly. Kelk had disappeared after last night’s episode. The Shadow had been on the point of leading to a discussion that might have produced a police search for the missing man.

But Harry’s report that Kelk was back at his apartment indicated that the mustached man intended to remain in New York. Under those circumstances, The Shadow preferred to keep his own watch on Kelk, without interference from the police.

The Shadow was about to take his leave. He was already shaking hands with Weston when a plainclothes man suddenly appeared at the door of the filing room. The Shadow turned with the others.

“What is it?” questioned Cardona of the detective.

“Fellow out here to see you,” replied the dick. “Looks like an Englishman. Says he came up from headquarters when he couldn’t find you there.”

Cardona looked at Weston, who nodded. Joe sent the plainclothes man to bring in the visitor. The Shadow, a look of interest on his face, decided to remain.

For The Shadow, keen in his study of an unusual trail of crime, had sensed that some new element was due to enter into the baffling game.