Treasures of Death

CHAPTER I THE VILLON MANUSCRIPT

GLEAMING lights formed an endless streak as the taxicab whirled uptown on Fifth Avenue. Terry Barliss experienced a keen zest as he viewed the thoroughfare that he had not seen for a dozen years. This feeling, however, was tempered as the cab swung to the right and roared through the darkness of an uncrowded side street.

In an instant, Terry forgot the interesting glamour of Manhattan. His thoughts became sober. This street marked the end of the glittering ride. His destination lay only a few blocks ahead; there he was to face the sadness of an interview with his aged uncle.

One definite purpose had brought Terry Barliss East from California. He had been summoned here by telegram. He had received the definite statement that his uncle, Shattuck Barliss, had not long to live. Terry Barliss, though not yet thirty, had seen many years elapse since he had met his only living relative.

The grinding of the taxi brakes brought a quick response from Terry Barliss. The cab was stopping in front of a gloomy brownstone house, the front of which was rendered old and decadent by the glare of a street lamp. Terry recognized this as his uncle’s home. He alighted from the cab and paid the driver.

Cars were parked at intervals along this street. Terry Barliss paid no attention to them as he stood in open view. He did not realize that eyes were watching him from an automobile less than thirty feet away. Without even glancing at the cab that had brought him here, Terry ascended the brownstone steps, and rang the bell. A melancholy dingle sounded from the depths of the house.

The cab was starting away as the house door opened. As soon as Terry had stepped inside and the door had closed behind him, a low word was given in the automobile by the curb. The motor purred easily. The car rolled slowly past the house and followed the direction that the taxicab had taken.

TERRY BARLISS knew nothing of this. His thoughts were busied solely with what lay ahead. He was in the hallway of his uncle’s home, a solemn, quiet place where dark-papered walls and massive pieces of furniture were revealed only by the feeble light of heavily shaded wall lamps.

The servant who had admitted the visitor was a quiet, colorless individual who bowed as Terry gave his name. He turned and led the way directly to a flight of stairs. Terry followed.

They reached a lighted hallway on the second floor. There the servant knocked. A woman’s voice gave the word to enter. The servant stepped aside. Terry opened the door and went into the room beyond.

There were three persons in the room. One was a middle-aged man, seated in an armchair. Another was a trained nurse, in uniform; she had given the order to enter. Terry Barliss noticed neither of these; the third person was the one who commanded his attention.

A withered old man lay prone in bed. His visage was as pale as the fleckless pillow slips beneath his head. His arms, pitifully white, were stretched upon the coverlets. Only his eyes seemed living. They turned sharply in Terry’s direction. A feeble smile came on the old man’s lips.

Terry Barliss was face to face with his uncle Shattuck.

Though years and health placed them far apart, the young man and the old bore a resemblance that was amazing. In every detail, their faces were identical. Both had high cheeks, a firm chin, set lips, and well-shaped forehead. Terry Barliss, the counterpart of his uncle Shattuck, felt that he was seeing himself as he might some day be.

The old man motioned weakly to a chair beside the bed. Terry sat down and gripped the feeble hand that was extended to him. His uncle began to speak, as calmly as though their last meeting had been but yesterday.

“Terry, I am glad that you are here.” The rhythm of the old man’s tone was almost musical. “I knew that I would live until you arrived — that I would live, although my days are numbered.

“This house, Terry, is your home. It belongs to you as long as I am alive. After I am dead, it still belongs to you — my brother’s son. You may keep it or dispose of it. In addition, I have left you a legacy.”

Shattuck Barliss had closed his eyes while he was speaking. His ending was quiet and unabrupt. It left the impression that it was no more than a mere pause. When, however, the old man still remained with closed eyes and quiet expression, Terry Barliss looked about him in a questioning manner.

Terry saw the middle-aged man in the chair. This individual seemed to realize that it was up to him to continue. He arose and extended his hand to Terry.

“I am Rodney Glasgow,” he explained. “I am attorney for Shattuck Barliss. He called me here because he expected you tonight.”

“You sent me the telegram,” reminded Terry.

“Yes,” said Glasgow. “It was urgent. Your uncle has told you an unfortunate fact — but one that is very definite. He has not long to live.

“In fact, he is living now, only by virtue of a special prescription prepared by Doctor Fullis, the specialist who is handling the case. That reminds me, Miss Wasson” — Glasgow turned to the attending nurse — “that it is nearly ten o’clock”

The nurse nodded and indicated a cardboard box and glass of water that lay in readiness on a table beside the bed. Glasgow glanced at Shattuck Barliss; when he saw that the old man was still resting, the lawyer again turned to Terry.

“Your uncle’s estate,” declared Glasgow, “comprises this house, its furnishings, his personal belongings, and securities amounting to approximately thirty thousand dollars. The larger proportion of the estate will be yours. The collection of books owned by Shattuck Barliss” — Glasgow indicated an inner room with a wave of his hand — “will go to the New York Public Library. These books, while they have not been appraised, are of considerable value—”

“I understand,” interposed Terry. “My father was a great collector of rare books. He gave his volumes to a library in California. He told me that Uncle Shattuck was a collector also.”

As he spoke, Terry had arisen and strolled to the door of the inner room. It was a small, well-furnished library, with a towering row of short shelves set in a niche. These shelves were well stocked with books. Terry noted a freshness about the place. Oak-paneled walls and other decorations made the room a contrast to the other portions of the house.

WHEN Terry turned back toward the bed, he was surprised to see his uncle sitting bolt upright. Shattuck Barliss was pointing to the clock. The nurse, understanding his gesture, produced two capsules from the cardboard box and gave the feeble old man a drink of water to wash down the pills.

Shattuck Barliss managed to set the glass upon the table. The old man seemed to be relaxing for an effort which was to come. Rodney Glasgow spoke to Terry in an undertone.

“Effort excites your uncle,” explained the attorney. “Strain or excitement would kill him. After each taking of the capsules, however, effort is allowable for a limited period, due to the stimulus of heart action. He can exert himself now, if he chooses.”

A change was coming over Shattuck Barliss while Glasgow spoke. The old man seemed to have aroused himself from total inertia. His actions were no longer nervous and shaky. He had keyed himself to a point of steadiness. His eyes were bright as the old man looked toward his nephew.

“Terry,” asserted the ailing man, “you have heard the provisions of my will. I have been listening to Mr. Glasgow’s statements. You have not, however, heard all. There is something which Glasgow has omitted because he knows nothing concerning it.”

Terry was tense. So was Rodney Glasgow. Shattuck Barliss had adopted a strong tone that revealed the power of his personality. Years dropped as he spoke. He had the fervor of youth and virility.

“Glasgow has spoken of my library,” continued the old man. “It is valuable, yet not exceedingly so. There was but one item in my collection that could be highly prized. Until a few weeks ago, it rested with the other books. When this illness seized me, I removed it to a place of absolute security.”

The old man raised his withered right hand and pointed with scrawny finger to a panel on the opposite wall. Terry, understanding his uncle’s indication, went to the spot.

“Press,” ordered Shattuck Barliss. “To the left — down — to the left — up — to the right—”

His voice became a chuckle as the panel sprang open. A small wall safe showed beneath the spot where the woodwork had formed a covering. Terry grasped the knob of the safe with his fingers.

“Left, three” — Shattuck Barliss, keen and staring, was giving the combination in chiming tones — “right five — left two — right six—”

The door yielded as Terry completed the action. The door of the safe opened. The young man found but one object within — a leather-bound volume, that he removed with care. He brought it to the bedside. Shattuck Barliss received it and turned back the cover.

The book was very thin. Its pages were of parchment. They were not permanently bound; the cover merely served as container for what appeared to be a precious manuscript.

Terry stared at the title page. It was embellished with quaintly formed characters. Terry recognized that the language must be French, yet it seemed strangely obscure.

“This,” announced Shattuck Barliss, as he placed his long forefinger upon the title page, “is the only existing copy of a work which is virtually unknown. There are other such manuscripts, but all are incomplete with the exception of this one.

“This manuscript is called ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’. It contains five ballads written by Francois Villon, the first and greatest of the French lyric poets. The verses were apparently produced by Villon in the year 1455.

“This manuscript is priceless. It belonged to your father, Terry. He gave it to me to reserve for you. Let me explain why its value may be regarded as fabulous — why you could sell it for many, many thousands.

“The first four ballads are found in other manuscripts. The calligraphy — or penmanship — is identical. Evidently all were inscribed at the same time. It is possible that some of those manuscripts were copies, or forgeries. Their value is doubtful.

“This manuscript, however, is unique. It, alone, is complete. It contains the Fifth Ballad — the lost rondeau of Francois Villon!”

THE gleam of enthusiasm showed on the old man’s countenance. His right hand rested on the title page. Terry Barliss — Rodney Glasgow as well — caught the spirit. They stared in awe as Shattuck Barliss turned the title page to exhibit inscribed lines of verse upon the next sheet of parchment.

“This manuscript is genuine,” exclaimed Shattuck Barliss. “All who have seen it have remarked upon that fact. All except one” — the old man’s face soured at the recollection — “and his opinion was outweighed. That one was Eli Galban.

“He holds a reputation for detecting forgeries. He maintained that there could be no Fifth Ballad of Francois Villon; that the added verses which give this manuscript its value — are no more than a spurious interpolation.

“But Galban’s examination was superficial!” The old man’s voice was rising. “Galban made no test! He called the entire work a forgery. That shows where he was wrong” — Shattuck Barliss was chuckling — “for I had already proven through other experts that the first four ballads were genuine; and they agreed that the fifth must have been inscribed by the same calligrapher.”

Shattuck Barliss was turning pages slowly as he spoke. He pointed with his fingers; the other men stared and nodded. They could see the quaint style of the letters on the parchment pages. They were waiting for the climax.

“See these lines?” questioned Shattuck Barliss sharply. “They comprise the first four ballads. They are valuable only because they prove the genuiness of the fifth. Mark these verses well, for I am coming to the final pages, where the fifth ballad appears. You will see them — for yourselves — the lost verses of Francois Villon!”

As he spoke, the old man rested his hand upon the page, in readiness to turn it. Both Terry Barliss and Rodney Glasgow could see that the book had not been opened for a long while. They knew that Shattuck Barliss had kept this treasured manuscript untouched; that the present exhibition had probably been given but seldom in the past few months.

The page turned slowly as Shattuck Barliss raised it. The old man was staring — the others with him — looking for the lines that would commence the Fifth Ballad.

A cry of terrible consternation shrieked from the old man’s throat. Withered hands clawed at the parchment pages; finger nails slipped as they scratched the Villon manuscript. Shattuck Barliss was wild-eyed. His nephew and his lawyer saw the reason.

The page which should have marked the beginning of the Fifth Ballad was a blank. It was merely a sheet of parchment that served as a final leaf to the priceless book!

“Stolen!” cried Shattuck Barliss. “Stolen!”

Those were the last words the old collector uttered. Choking gasps coughed from dried lips. Shattuck Barliss dropped back upon his pillows. A broken spasm of sound was his final outburst.

Staring eyes lost their gleam; withered hands fell useless. A rejuvenated frame became a pitiable human form. The shock had proven too great. In spite of the stimulating dose, the old man had yielded to the strain.

Shattuck Barliss lay dead, the false manuscript of Francois Villon spread — with its blank pages — before him. The priceless treasure that he had cherished for so many years had gone from his possession.

Some crafty, unknown hand had wrested away the true Villon manuscript that Shattuck Barliss had so closely guarded!