The Triple Trail

CHAPTER VIII THE NEW OBJECTIVE

SEATED in the big chair, Tully Kelk produced a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Wickroft; then lighted his own.

Wickroft was nervous; he failed to get a light until his third match. Looking up, the secretary saw Kelk watching him with a sour smile.

From his hiding place behind the curtains, The Shadow observed the faces of both men. He could see how Kelk was studying Wickroft and keeping the pale secretary troubled. Despite Kelk’s assurance that he believed Wickroft’s statements, there was something in his manner that showed lingering doubt.

Wickroft was anxious to speak. Yet he hesitated, waiting to be questioned. Kelk remained thoughtful for some moments, still continuing his careful scrutiny of the secretary. At last he began proceedings.

“I believed you, Wickroft,” said Kelk, slowly, “both yesterday and today. Yet it seemed to me that you were — well, let us say a trifle incoherent. A bit uncertain of yourself.”

“I was,” admitted Wickroft, nodding. “But I was sort of overanxious, chief. Yesterday, I was worried for fear you wouldn’t call me up. On account of what I told you before — that old Treblaw used to stay in the house rainy mornings; that there was a chance of him cutting in on calls.”

“I would have taken care of that,” returned Kelk, with a smile. “Treblaw’s voice would not have been difficult to recognize.”

“I knew that,” agreed Wickroft. “You could have pretended you had a wrong number; and the way you always talk over the telephone would have fooled the old man. But this was a case of your call getting through; because there was no way I could reach you. Listen, chief; if I only knew how to get you—”

“I prefer my own arrangements,” snapped Kelk. “Let us drop that subject, Wickroft. If I prefer to keep my identity concealed from you, that is my own business. Your job is to take orders when you get them.”

“I understand that, chief.”

“And you’re not to worry about when you will hear from me. You admit that yesterday you were jittery because you didn’t know whether or not I would call. Today, your trouble was the fact that a detective named Cardona came here to question you regarding Stanton Treblaw.”

“Yes, chief. But I stalled him. I knew I was safe. I didn’t tell him a thing. He was talking to Baxter and the cook when you called up; but I had to cut it short and I couldn’t talk too much. The detective might have breezed in here any minute.”

“I suspected that, Wickroft. Particularly after I read the evening newspaper. Cardona told the reporters that he had been here. Don’t worry” — Kelk raised a hand as Wickroft started to speak — “because he learned nothing. I compliment you on that, Wickroft.”

The secretary looked pleased. Kelk, however, still eyed him steadily. Then, leaning across the table, Kelk spoke firmly.

“I CAME here, tonight,” he declared, “for two reasons: First, to see what I might find in Treblaw’s files. Second, to contact you; to give you a chance to explain yourself.”

“To explain myself?” echoed Wickroft.

“Exactly,” stated Kelk. “To let you repeat the garbled facts that you have already given me; to see if they jibe correctly and fit in with circumstances.”

Wickroft nodded. He puffed at his cigarette and remained thoughtful as he faced Kelk’s gaze. Then, steadying, he began his testimony.

“It’s easy this way, chief,” declared Wickroft. “I was nervous over the phone. It seemed hard to make myself properly understood. Try to give me a break and understand that I’m on the level.”

“Granted.”

“All right, chief. Yesterday, Treblaw got his last letter from Signet. The one offering the thirty thousand dollars. Treblaw told me he was going in to deliver. He also received a letter from Burson, Limited, saying that they thanked him for his business. He took both letters with him.”

“I understand,” stated Kelk. “But make yourself quite clear, Wickroft. You saw both of those letters?”

“I read the one from Signet,” replied the secretary, “but not the Burson letter. Treblaw put it in his pocket, not in the file. He must have torn it up and thrown it away. That’s why you didn’t find it in with the Signet letters and the Burson file.

“You seemed upset about it when you called me this morning, chief. The way you talked, it sounded like you were making a point about that odd letter being missing. I thought maybe you didn’t believe me when I said that the letter came in from the Burson outfit. But I’d already told you that Treblaw said the letter was unimportant; and I knew it was from the way he stuck it in his pocket.”

“You should have made yourself more plain, Wickroft,” interposed Kelk, in a mollified tone.

“I did my best,” insisted Wickroft. “But I was all upset because you hadn’t found the Cellini manuscript along with the rest of Treblaw’s papers. Then when you started to talk about a missing Burson letter — like you were tripping me up — I began to be worried.”

“Forget it, Wickroft. I was anxious, also. That manuscript is worth plenty of money to me. I intend to acquire it. I came here in hope that it might still be here.”

“But I told you, chief, that I’ve searched—”

“Sometimes searches fail. After all, if Treblaw didn’t have the manuscript with him, he must have left it somewhere. I wanted to check on your reports, Wickroft.”

“You won’t find anything in those files, chief. What’s more, I’ve had plenty of chance to search the house today, looking through old boxes and what not. Now that Treblaw’s dead, that’s my natural job as his secretary. The manuscript isn’t here.”

Kelk pondered. He began to nod slowly as indication that he believed Wickroft’s statements. The secretary was encouraged.

“I AGREE with you, chief,” said Wickroft, “that Treblaw should have had that manuscript with him. I told you I thought he was going to pick it up in New York. From some lawyer; or a safe-deposit vault; maybe from old Tilton.”

“Quite logical,” agreed Kelk. “Since he intended to deal with Signet — as the ad in the Classic proved — he should have had the manuscript on hand.”

“But he didn’t,” put in Wickroft. “And if his room was watched as good as you said it was, there wasn’t any chance for him to have met Signet.”

“Quite true, Wickroft. Treblaw’s death was, let us say, arranged shortly after the first edition of the Classic appeared upon the street. Signet could not have seen Treblaw for the simple reason that he could not have known that Treblaw was ready.”

“That’s the way I figure it, chief. And the only answer is that Treblaw didn’t have the manuscript with him. Maybe he was bluffing Signet. Sounding him out for a starter.”

“I am inclined to agree with you, Wickroft. We are getting somewhere at last. Our problem now is to guess where the manuscript might be. You have mentioned Tilton. You are sure that Tilton is the best bet?”

“Absolutely, chief! I mentioned Tilton yesterday; I told you about him again this morning. I’ve been to his place; I know the size of his collection. You remember what I told you about Treblaw leaving some items with Tilton, a long time ago—”

“I remember. The manuscript could be with them.”

“Yes. But it would mean blowing Tilton’s safe to look for it. You said you could arrange that.”

“I have arranged it,” — Kelk was smiling as he spoke — “but I would prefer a more subtle method. It would be better, Wickroft, to induce Tilton to part with the manuscript voluntarily. Assuming, of course, that he has it.”

“How could that be done, chief?”

“By a visit to Tilton. So far, Wickroft, you stand clear of suspicion. You are arranging all of Treblaw’s affairs. What would be more logical than a visit by yourself, to Tilton’s residence? A simple inquiry concerning items that Treblaw may have left with his old friend.”

Wickroft sat nonplused. He saw the effectiveness of Kelk’s scheme; but he was appalled by the part that he would have to play. As a passive actor, Wickroft was capable. Straight bluff, however, frightened him.

“Come, Wickroft,” assured Kelk, smoothly, “you have nothing to fear. Suppose we go into New York tonight. You can call at Tilton’s home; I shall be there to back you.”

“You’ll be with me, chief?” questioned Wickroft, eagerly. “Ready to help me put it over?”

“I shall be close at hand,” stated Kelk. “We can arrange that on the way in. Come, Wickroft,” — Kelk paused to glance at his watch — “we have just time to catch the next train. A brisk walk to the station.”

“All right, chief.” Wickroft came to his feet. “I’ll get my hat and coat and tell Baxter that I’m going into the city. You can come out the front way with me. Baxter won’t know it, he’s up on the third floor. Just how,” — Wickroft looked quizzical — “did you get in here, chief?”

“I jimmied the side window,” answered Kelk.

“Better lock it up,” suggested Wickroft, “while I’m talking to Baxter. Turn out the light and meet me in the hall.”

RED curtains moved imperceptibly as The Shadow silently raised the sash beyond and glided into the outside darkness. Gloved hands lowered the sash; The Shadow clung to the blackness beside the house wall. He heard Kelk lock the jimmied window.

The Shadow moved through the night. He reached the street, traveled one block townward and stopped at a secluded place where he had parked his big car. He waited there a few minutes; then came the approaching footsteps of two men on the opposite side of the street. Kelk and Wickroft, heading for the station.

The Shadow waited until they were out of earshot; then he started the motor of the car. Purring softly, the big machine rolled toward the nearest corner.

From a distance came the whistle of a locomotive, a banshee wail that sounded eerie in the darkness of the countryside. The Shadow’s laugh came as a low, creepy challenge, whispered from unseen lips.

Motor throbbed as the big car opened up. The Shadow swung into a through route that would lead him to the Skyway; thence into New York. Tully Kelk had arrived ahead of The Shadow in the race to Droverton; but the return trip would produce a different result.

Starting ahead of the train, The Shadow had the edge. He was familiar with the name of Tilton. It was one identified with Treblaw. For Stanton Treblaw and Silas Tilton, fellow collectors of rarities, had been friends.

The aftermath of murder had become a new objective: the residence of Silas Tilton, in Manhattan. The Shadow, like Kelk and Wickroft, had chosen Tilton’s as his goal. He would be there and ready before the other two arrived.