The Triple Trail

CHAPTER XXI THE SECOND PART

“LIKE Kelk,” stated Verne, “I have credentials. I shall produce them after I have told my story. I am a private investigator, who was concerned with the matter of the Signet correspondence.

“Acting in the interests of Stanton Treblaw, knowing that the old collector was on the point of accepting a Signet offer, I wrote him a confidential letter. I told him that I intended to be in New York; that I would stop at the Hotel Goliath.

“I added that it would be wise for him to keep this fact secret from every one; to destroy my letter immediately after reading it. I assured him that I would be ready in case of any emergency.”

“When did you arrive in New York?” quizzed Cardona, suddenly. “Where did you come from to begin with?”

“I came from London,” replied Verne, “and I reached here the same day as Treblaw. I waited about, here in my room, in case I should hear from him that first night. I fell asleep and knew nothing about the commotion here until the next morning.

“I was amazed when I read the morning journals and learned that Treblaw had been murdered. But something amazed me even more that day. There was a letter for me at the desk. A long envelope. I opened it; inside I found Treblaw’s Cellini manuscript.

“Here is the envelope,” — Verne removed the object from his pocket — “and you will observe that it was not left at the desk. Instead, it was posted and came to me by mail. The postmark shows midnight.”

Cardona grunted.

“I read the Classic the morning following Treblaw’s death,” resumed Verne. “His advertisement to Signet was still in print. I had not read it in the early edition; I did not know then that the Classic of one day could be bought the night before.

“Well, here I was, holding the manuscript, with Treblaw dead. What was I to do? Inform the police? Hardly, for it seemed my own concern at the moment. I decided that I should wait. I held a remarkable trump card.

“Who had killed Treblaw? Signet? No. I knew too well that Signet must be a man of means; one who could certainly meet Treblaw’s price. Still, I was certain of nothing, except that Treblaw had managed to get the manuscript to me. He must have foreseen some menace.

“Then came news of the affray at Tilton’s. I still waited; and all the while, one thought was bobbing through my brain: What would Signet do now that Treblaw was dead and the manuscript missing?

“I kept noting the column in the Classic. Last night, I was puzzled by the appearance of a new advertisement to Signet. Someone — T, like Treblaw, or Tilton — wanted to communicate with him. Was the advertisement a hoax? I was determined to learn.

“So I resolved to pass myself as Signet. I inserted a response to the inquiry; then I waited here, with a revolver handy, to see if some chap decided to take the bait that I had offered. You know the rest, gentlemen. Mr. Kelk came to see me.”

VERNE ended so abruptly that the listeners were taken aback. The dapper man’s story was effective because of its simplicity. But it was one that needed support other than Verne’s own word. Verne himself recognized that fact.

“May I obtain my credentials?” he inquired, of Cardona

“Where are they?” returned the detective.

“In the top drawer of this trunk,” replied Verne.

“I’ll get them,” suggested Cardona.

The ace sleuth used his left hand to yank open the drawer that Verne had designated. Joe picked out a wad of papers. They were bound with a rubber band; a yellow sheet showed on the top of the stack.

“Look at that paper first,” stated Verne. “It is a copy of the letter that I sent to Treblaw, telling him that I would be at this hotel.”

Cardona pulled the yellow paper loose. He read its lines.

“You sent this from London?” asked Joe, in surprise. “Before you left England?”

“It was mailed from London,” returned Verne, “coincident with my departure. The letter was sent by the concern which I represent. A house that takes charge of private investigations. The original letter, of course, was on their own stationery; but it was signed by myself—”

“One moment, Cardona,” broke in Dale Jurling, stepping forward. “This man is dangerous! Let me have those papers” — he tried to pluck the packet from Cardona’s hand — “before Verne tries some other ruse to deceive us.”

Cardona pulled the stack of papers from Jurling’s grasp. Swinging, Joe saw Jurling’s face. The man’s light countenance was flushed with anger and excitement. A change had come over Dale Jurling.

“Who is this fellow?” demanded Verne, speaking to Cardona. Verne, too, was noting Jurling as the latter backed away. “He does not look like one of your headquarters men.”

“He is a British investigator,” growled Joe. “Comes from an outfit called Burson, Limited. He says—”

“Burson, Limited!” interposed Verne, excitedly. “That is the house I represent! Those credentials that you hold are proof of it! We were handling the Signet investigation for Stanton Treblaw! Look at my papers — learn for yourself—”

JURLING, still backing, had placed his hand upon the doorknob. His face wore a scowl. As Cardona remained rooted, Jurling suddenly started to yank the door open.

Cardona, thinking that the blond man was out to make a get-away, sprang after him, ready to level his gun should Jurling make a move with the weapon that he held.

Verne also started forward. Kelk came to his feet. Anxious to aid Cardona, they were ready to overpower Jurling before he could escape. But the three men were all making the same mistake. Flight was not Jurling’s plan.

As the door came open, Jurling twisted away to divert Cardona’s aim. Joe brought up his gun; but he did not fire. He was stopped by a snarl from the door. There, lunging in, came Duster Shomak; behind him a bulking mobsman.

Both were wielding revolvers. Their weapons covered Cardona; Kelk and Verne as well.

Reinforced by these henchmen, Jurling rasped a command as he raised his own gun. Cardona, Kelk and Verne came up with their hands, backing away from the foemen who had trapped them. Joe’s revolver clattered as he dropped it to the floor.

“Stand where you are!” snarled Jurling. “The first of you who moves will get a blast from the smoke-wagons! You’ve got your mitts up — be sure you keep them up. Listen, while I talk.”

Duster Shomak had eased the door shut. He had edged to one corner of the room; the gorilla who was with him had taken another corner. Dale Jurling stepped between; he chuckled in ugly fashion as he noted how completely he and his underlings held their victims at bay.

Momentary silence came after Jurling’s evil sneer. An insidious pall lay over that room. The scene had changed with surprising promptitude. The stage was set for another quick act in this odd drama.

It was a sight to witness; and there were eyes that viewed the setting. The eyes of The Shadow. For the cloaked master stood beyond the slightly opened door at the inner corner of the room.

The Shadow had anticipated this change of front on Jurling’s part. But he had left action to Cardona and the others, counting upon them to use swift judgment. Cardona — Kelk and Verne as well — had failed in the crisis.

The Shadow had wanted Jurling to speak. He had seen Jurling to be the real crook; he had wanted the rogue to give his own story. That would have given the law the record that it needed to close this amazing case involving the murder of Stanton Treblaw.

Kelk had told his story; so had Verne. It was Jurling’s turn; and Jurling should have been made to confess, backed to the wall by Joe Cardona. But Joe had flubbed the deal; in a twinkling, the tables had shifted.

THE muzzle of an automatic was black against the corner of that inner door. The Shadow had covered Jurling from the instant that the man had shown readiness to flee. But when the door had opened to reveal Duster and the gorilla, The Shadow had gained no chance to fire. Joe Cardona, leaping forward and then stopping, had come directly into the path of The Shadow’s aim.

It was fortunate that Cardona had not put up a futile fight. The Shadow, from his ambush, could have delivered a devastating blast to the crooks; but the odds would have been bad for Joe Cardona. The ace, however, had shown good wisdom in dropping his gun to back away.

As it now stood, Jurling and two thugs were holding a trio of helpless men. Disdain was registered on Jurling’s face. Duster and the gorilla looked contemptuous. Jurling had expressed his wish to talk. That fitted directly with The Shadow’s own arrangements.

He was willing to let Jurling speak. Not only because the man would reveal his own evil doings, but because passing minutes would throw Jurling and his minions off their guard. The succession of events had twisted from The Shadow’s control, but the scene was coming back again to the way that he had willed it.

No laugh from The Shadow’s hidden lips. Not even a whisper told the satisfaction that the master fighter felt. Burning eyes alone declared The Shadow’s intensity; and those optics, back from the edge of the inner door, were unviewed by Jurling and his two tools.

The Shadow saw a look of stupefication on the face of Joe Cardona. No wonder. The ace detective was thinking of all that had happened here. Astounding changes had occurred within the room where men had met.

The triangle had changed in incredible fashion. Three men involved. The first, a supercrook; the second a man of wealth who called himself Signet; the third an investigator, representing the British house of Burson, Limited.

The field had looked plain when Cardona had viewed it. Joe had picked Tully Kelk as the evil brain. He had accepted Montague Verne as Signet. He had believed that Dale Jurling was the bona fide investigator.

Then had come the astounding shift. Parts had changed like the glittering shutter of a kaleidoscope. Three actors in the game; three men of differing purposes. Each had assumed an unexpected role.

Tully Kelk was not the crook. He had openly declared himself to be Signet; he had proven his claim. Montague Verne, no longer Signet, had announced himself as the real investigator from England. Dale Jurling, the fraudulent investigator, had seen his underpinnings dropped. He had encountered a dilemma.

With only three legitimate parts in the game, two had been taken by their owners. Signet was found; the investigator was known; Jurling had been left holding the bag. He had only one role to play. His own. He was proven a crook by every circumstance.

Kelk’s tale was told. Verne’s story also. Each of those two had stated, logically, his reasons for playing another’s part.

Jurling was now to be heard from; and it was plain that the supercrook would tell the truth. For Jurling, backed by his henchmen’s guns, would not be making a forced confession. His words would be the utterances of a triumphant fiend.

The Shadow had judged this triangle. He had considered parts that men were playing. He had inscribed no names upon his final outline. He had kept the real identities within his own keen brain.

Ready to add his own climax to the final scene, The Shadow, invisible witness, intended to hear Dale Jurling speak. Though he knew it not, Jurling, supercrook, was about to give a confession for the benefit of a merciless judge.