The Triple Trail

CHAPTER XIV THE MEETING

LATE the next afternoon, a dapper man strolled into the lobby of the Hotel Goliath. He stopped at the desk, inquired for the key to Suite 1472 and asked if any mail or telephone calls had been received for Mr. Verne. The clerk’s reply was negative.

Montague Verne strolled aboard an elevator. Standing there, he appeared to be a middle-aged idler who was bored with life. Verne was difficult to place. He might have been an Englishman; or he might have been an American who had traveled extensively abroad.

His demeanor, however, showed him a man of the world. His face, rugged in outline, was drooping in its features. His profile, which showed as he turned toward the side of the elevator, possessed a definite bluntness.

The elevator traveled up to the fourteenth floor. Verne paused to obtain a drink of ice water after he had left the elevator. The faucet was close beside the elevators; as he drank, Verne noted a mail chute also. He pulled some picture post cards from his pocket and dropped them down the chute.

Verne strolled to 1472. He unlocked the door and stepped into the living room of a small suite. He closed the door behind him; then turned around and stopped in surprise.

He was facing a tall intruder who was standing in a corner of the room.

STARTLEMENT registered itself but momentarily on Verne’s face. Regaining his composure, Verne studied the personage before him. He saw a countenance that was impressive. The tall stranger had a hawk-like visage that maintained the solemn expression of a mask.

Verne calmly placed his hat upon a table. He pulled a tabloid newspaper from his pocket and laid it there also. Nonchalantly lighting a cigarette, he turned to the corner and asked: “Well, who are you!”

A faint smile showed on thin lips. The Shadow responded quietly.

“My name,” he stated, in an even tone, “is Lamont Cranston. Perhaps you have heard the name before.”

Verne’s eyes lighted momentarily. Then the dapper man shook his head.

“Can’t say that I have, old top,” he remarked. “Let me see. Cranston, you say. Lamont Cranston—”

“A friend of Silas Tilton.”

“Silas Tilton?”

A quiet laugh from The Shadow’s thin lips.

“Come, Verne” — it was the tone of Cranston — “you have read the newspapers. In fact, you have just laid a copy of the Classic on the table. I suppose you have read the advertisement that appeared in today’s edition. The one addressed to Signet. Do you intend to answer it?”

Verne looked chagrined. Then he shrugged his shoulders and formed a drooping smile.

“Yes, I’ve read the newspapers,” he admitted. “I know who you are, Cranston. You were mentioned as a guest at Tilton’s, who left just before trouble started there. But tell me: how did you guess that I was Signet?”

“Quite simply.” The Shadow’s face still held its knowing smile. “That is, I learned enough to suppose that someone staying at the Hotel Goliath might be Signet.”

“You have seen the correspondence that I conducted with Stanton Treblaw?” Verne was parrying with an artful fashion. “The original letters, signed with my seal?”

“I have learned their contents, from copies of the originals.”

“Indeed! Then you know why I am in New York?”

The Shadow, in the manner of a leisurely host, waved Verne to a chair. Chuckling, Verne sat down. The Shadow did the same. He spoke in Cranston’s methodical tone.

“I know this,” stated The Shadow. “I know that Treblaw’s correspondence concerned the matter of an authentic manuscript written by Benvenuto Cellini; one that mentioned important art treasures.”

“That is true,” admitted Verne.

“I know also,” resumed The Shadow, “that the possessor of those treasures needs the manuscript and would pay far more for it than he offered Treblaw.”

“Agreed,” chuckled Verne. “I think I understand, Mr. Cranston. You have the manuscript. That is why you sought me. You know that I am Signet and am willing to pay high. Am I right?”

“You are wrong,” returned The Shadow. “I do not have the manuscript.”

“But Silas Tilton has it then.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am not Tilton’s agent. I have come here, Mr. Verne, merely to offer you my services. I believe that new crime is due. I should like to prevent it.”

“How can you do that?”

“By obtaining possession of the manuscript and turning it over to the proper authorities.”

“AN excellent idea, Mr. Cranston,” laughed Verne. “But you have come to the wrong quarter. You know quite well that I do not have the Cellini manuscript. Someone else holds it — as this Classic advertisement indicates.”

“Possibly,” suggested The Shadow, “the advertisement in the Classic is a blind.”

“For what purpose?” queried Verne.

“To learn where you are,” returned The Shadow.

“An excellent theory, Mr. Cranston,” declared Verne, slowly. “One that may be correct. Then, again, someone who has the manuscript may have decided to communicate with me. I think that I shall know the real answer by midnight.”

“You intend, then, to reply to the advertisement.”

“I do. I shall put my reply in the first edition of the next issue. The one that will be on sale at nine o’clock this evening.”

“Inviting T to visit you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

Verne was both emphatic and frank in his statement. He watched his visitor’s face. The Shadow’s immobile countenance told nothing. Verne dropped his cigarette in an ash tray. He leaned forward in his chair.

“MR. CRANSTON,” he stated, “you are an outsider in this affair. Nevertheless, I do not resent your intrusion. It is evident that you are a man of high standing; and that you have actually come here to offer me aid as well as advice.

“I can assure you that I am a man of integrity, that my motives in seeking the Cellini manuscript are fully in the interests of justice. I have made my plans. I have merely been waiting for some opportunity to push them.

“For the last two days, I have been ready to advertise in the columns of the Classic. But I bided my time, feeling that it would be best to wait. Now that a message to Signet has again appeared in print, I feel that the move should be made.”

The Shadow made no response. Verne waited a moment; then continued.

“I can assure you, also,” he declared, “that the Signet correspondence was fair and above-board from the very start. Some criminal element came into it. How, I do not know. Should I learn the identity of Stanton Treblaw’s murderer, I would lose no time in bringing the fiend to justice.

“Apparently, some of those who aided in the killing were eliminated in a strange battle at Silas Tilton’s. But there is a brain behind the game; the real criminal is still at large. It is my hope that he will eventually be apprehended.”

Another pause. Then The Shadow spoke, quietly.

“Do you believe,” he questioned, “that the arch-criminal holds the Cellini manuscript?”

“I do not know,” returned Verne. “But I do know that it would be valueless to him unless he could also acquire the newly uncovered art works of Cellini. To gain those treasures he must find Signet. In brief, he must come to me.”

Verne paused emphatically; then added:

“I am the key to this entire matter. If the criminal does not hold the manuscript, he will spy upon me. If he does have the manuscript, he may spy, or he may come openly to dicker. In either event, I shall have a chance to watch for him.”

“Without protection?”

“Hardly so. I am not an old man, like Treblaw was. Nor am I unsuspecting. Nor have I placed myself in a bad spot. Treblaw was not murdered until the criminal thought that the time was ripe. That same criminal will make no attempt to attack me until he knows where I have placed the Cellini treasures.”

“And when he learns that fact?”

“He will not learn it, you may rest assured of that.”

VERNE arose. He stepped past a huge wardrobe trunk and placed his hand on the knob of the door that led to the hall.

“I trust, Mr. Cranston,” he said, with a smile, “that you will not consider me impolite in requesting your departure. In fact, to assure you that I appreciate your friendship, I am informing you that it would be to our mutual interests for you to leave.

“I feel confident that you will not mention this interview to anyone. That you will be courteous enough to permit me to proceed with my present plans without interference that might cause me trouble.

“In return for your favor, I shall promise you this: if, at any time, I need your immediate aid, I shall call upon you. And as soon as I have found a light at the end of my complicated trail, I shall inform you.”

The Shadow bowed in Cranston’s fashion. He extended his hand to Verne.

“You can reach me at the Cobalt Club,” stated The Shadow. “And between now and tonight, Mr. Verne, I should advise you to stay in this room, or to inform the hotel management that you wish none of the servants to enter.”

“You mean that you came in while the room was being put in order?”

“Yes. And I remained here. I decided that it would be the best way to meet you privately.”

Verne chuckled.

“Thank you for the suggestion,” he said. “And do not forget our arrangement, Mr. Cranston. I may have been over frank in admitting that I am Signet. But I judged you to be a man who would keep the matter confidential.”

Again, The Shadow bowed. Verne opened the door. His visitor departed. Verne waited until The Shadow had passed the turn of the corridor; then he closed the door of 1472.

But Montague Verne failed to see the new smile that fixed itself upon the firm lips of Lament Cranston. He failed also to hear the soft whisper of weird mirth that came from those same lips.

The Shadow had completed the triangle. He had found the third man in the game. He had studied Verne; he had learned more than the dapper man had told him. The Shadow’s findings fitted with his theories.

The Shadow could see the end of complications. He could foretell the climax that was coming to the triple trail of crime. The Shadow knew all!