The Triple Trail

CHAPTER IX THE STAGE SETS

A TAXI stopped before an antiquated brownstone house. A tall passenger stepped forth, spoke to the driver and then turned toward the old building. The cab pulled further down the street.

A street lamp revealed the arrival’s face. Hawkish, almost mask-like, it was the same countenance that The Shadow had worn on his visit to the Hotel Goliath.

The Shadow had arrived at the home of Silas Tilton. Ascending the steps, he rang the doorbell. A husky servant responded. The Shadow announced himself as Mr. Lamont Cranston. The servant ushered him into a hallway.

On the right was a vacant, darkened parlor, its gloom increased by heavy curtains that hung in the wide doorway. The servant had gone toward the rear of the house, evidently to a private sitting room where Tilton bided his time.

“Mr. Lamont Cranston?” The Shadow heard the question in a quavering voice from beyond the hall. “Tell him to come in to see me. At once, Perkins.”

That voice was evidently Tilton’s. Perkins reappeared immediately, bowed and conducted the tall visitor to the sitting room. As he crossed the threshold, The Shadow found himself faced by a wizened, stoop-shouldered man.

Beady eyes glimmered through thick spectacles as Silas Tilton thrust out a claw-like hand to his visitor. Waving his guest to a chair, Tilton began to speak in a friendly quaver.

“This is indeed a pleasure,” said the old man. “It is a long time since I have seen you, Mr. Cranston. Well do I remember the long discussion that we once held on the subject of the Westcar Papyrus.”

“And its translation,” smiled The Shadow, “with the reference to King Khufu.”

“One of the most interesting of all existing papyri. A most illuminating manuscript, in my opinion. I regard it as one of the prize possessions in the British Museum.”

“All types of manuscripts interest you, Mr. Tilton. Have you increased your collection recently?”

“No, Mr. Cranston. But I believe that I may make some additions shortly. Perhaps I may be asked to make an offer for the collection of my unfortunate friend Treblaw.”

“Stanton Treblaw? The man who was murdered last night?”

“The same. I suppose you read about his death in the newspapers. Poor Treblaw. He stopped in here to see me yesterday. Unfortunately, I was out.”

Tilton paused to remove his spectacles and wipe them; then, in his quaver, he resumed:

“I had some manuscripts that belonged to Treblaw. They were in a box in my safe. He came here to obtain them.”

“And was forced to leave them?”

“No. Perkins had the combination; he opened the safe for Treblaw.”

“And Treblaw took the manuscripts?”

“Yes. He remarked to Perkins that they were of little value. But for that chance statement, I would have informed the police concerning them. Doubtless they were stolen by the rogues who murdered Treblaw.”

“What were the manuscripts?”

“I do not know. That is why my information would be of no value to the law. I dislike notoriety, Mr. Cranston; and I could see no purpose in mentioning that Treblaw had been here.”

PERKINS appeared as Tilton concluded this statement. He came with the announcement that Mr. Wickroft was calling. Tilton did not recognize the name. Perkins added that Wickroft was Treblaw’s secretary.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Tilton. “That is true, Treblaw did have a secretary; but I had forgotten the chap’s name. Show him in, Perkins.” Then, as he saw his present guest rising, Tilton added. “What? You are leaving, Mr. Cranston?”

“I just happened to be riding by,” returned The Shadow. “I dropped in to pay my respects; and to express the wish that we might meet again.”

“Certainly,” quavered Tilton. “You are always welcome, Mr. Cranston. It has been good to see you. Come again.”

Wickroft entered. Tilton shook hands with him; then introduced the arrival to Cranston.

The Shadow bowed and departed, leaving the two together. Perkins ushered him to the door. The Shadow turned the knob himself; as he opened the door, he dropped his hand.

Fingers pressed a wedge-shaped object into the latch. The action was unnoticed by Perkins. A smile showed on thin lips as The Shadow went down the steps and heard the door close behind him. He strolled along to the parked cab and entered it in silent fashion.

From a bag on the floor of the cab, The Shadow removed black garments. He slipped a cloak over head and shoulders, added the slouch hat to his head, then whispered:

“Report.”

Moe Shrevnitz started. Sitting behind the wheel, he had not noticed The Shadow’s arrival. Then, recovering from his surprise, the taxi driver leaned close to the window and spoke in cautious tone.

“One guy went in,” he stated. “Then another sneaked in after him. The first fellow must have opened the door for him.”

The Shadow understood. While Perkins had gone to announce Wickroft, the pale-faced man had admitted Kelk. The latter must have chosen the empty parlor for a temporary hiding place. There was a thin door between Tilton’s parlor and the sitting room; Kelk could be listening there.

“Report received,” whispered The Shadow. “Instructions.”

“Ready,” declared Moe.

“Signal Marsland and Hawkeye when they arrive,” ordered The Shadow. “Tell them to inspect about the house. Stand by for emergency.”

“I’ve got it,” acknowledged Moe.

The Shadow glided from the cab. He became a phantom shape as he progressed toward the house that he had so recently left in the guise of Cranston. Flattened against the front door, The Shadow stood invisible. He worked at the knob.

The wedge had almost completely eliminated the efficiency of the latch. It had caught very slightly; and The Shadow’s shifting of the knob was sufficient. The tremble of the latch freed it.

The Shadow edged through the door as he opened it. Gloved fingers plucked away the wedge. The Shadow closed the door noiselessly.

THE front hall was gloomy. Silently, The Shadow glided past the doorway of the parlor, confident that Kelk, concerned with conversation from the sitting room, would not note his passage.

He reached the end of the hall. There he picked a short extending alcove from which to listen. The door of the sitting room was ajar. The Shadow could hear Wickroft talking to Tilton.

The secretary had not yet gotten to his point. He was talking about Treblaw’s death, bemoaning the fact that he had lost a benevolent employer. Half a dozen minutes passed while this continued. Then Wickroft edged to the subject.

“I have thoroughly classified all of Mr. Treblaw’s manuscripts,” he declared. “The files are complete. And yet I remember that Mr. Treblaw once spoke of other items that were apart from his collection. I came here to find out if you knew anything about such manuscripts, Mr. Tilton.”

“Ah, yes,” rejoined Tilton. “Fortunately, Wickroft, you came to the right place. Unfortunately, you came too late.”

“You mean, sir—”

“That Treblaw once left some manuscripts with me. Only a few, you understand; they could have been scarcely more than folios. For they were contained in an envelope of only moderate size.”

“What were the manuscripts, Mr. Tilton?”

“I do not know. I placed the envelope in a box in my safe. Treblaw told me that they were not of great value. He left them here so that he could pick them up when he next came to New York. But that was quite a while ago.”

“And you have those manuscripts?”

“No. Treblaw came for them yesterday afternoon. Perkins, my servant, gave him the envelope.”

“And you are sure they were of little value?”

“So Treblaw said. But he might have minimized their importance, to prevent my worrying about their safety. However, Wickroft, now that you have come here, I think that we should take a look to make sure that Treblaw actually removed the envelope.”

“But if Perkins gave it to him—”

“Perkins merely opened the safe and showed the box to Treblaw. Perkins replaced the box in the safe.”

“And it was empty—”

“Empty, but locked. Perkins did not open it; he simply brought the key down here to my desk. Ah, here it is.”

Old Tilton had risen while speaking. Reaching in a high, old-fashioned desk, he produced a small brass key. Motioning to Wickroft, Tilton started from the room. Wickroft followed.

WHEN Tilton opened the door into the hall, it came in front of The Shadow’s alcove. Tilton left the door open. Peering past the edge of the barrier, The Shadow saw Tilton lead the way up the front stairs. The Shadow waited.

Listening, he heard footsteps that came directly overhead. This was proof that Tilton kept his safe in a room almost above the sitting room. The Shadow made no move. He was expecting signs of Kelk. They came.

Floor boards creaked. Kelk came cautiously from the front parlor, his sallow face appearing saturnine in the gloom of the hall. Stealthily, the mustached man moved up the stairs. Then his steps ceased. The Shadow knew why.

On the second floor, as on the first, Kelk had ducked into some hiding place. He intended to wait at close quarters while Tilton and Wickroft inspected the old man’s safe. The stage was set.

The door of the sitting room moved. The Shadow glided from the alcove. With amazing stealth, he reached the stairway and began an upward course.

Scenting the possibility of some dire emergency, The Shadow had taken up the trail of the three who had gone ahead of him.