Treasures of Death

CHAPTER X THE SHADOW RETURNS

TEN o’clock. The front of Compton Salwood’s place of business showed blackened windows that reflected the lights of the street. A drizzling rain had begun; a touch of the somber was apparent in this district near Fifth Avenue.

A string of automobiles rolled along the side street. Silence followed. Few walkers were abroad. The steady light of a street lamp showed the glistening surface of the sidewalk beneath it.

A patch of blackness flitted across the reflected spot of light. The blackness disappeared as it merged with the front of Salwood’s place. The patter of the rain seemed to suppress the presence of some invisible creature of the night.

There was a space at the side of Salwood’s shop. It was very dark there. The personage who entered was rendered entirely unseen. Then came a tiny glow, the circular gleam of a small flashlight. A disk of light showed upon the metal shutter of a window.

Muffled sounds followed — sounds that were completely lost by the dripping of the rain. An unseen hand was working on the shutter, prying it open with an expert touch. Only one person could be doing this job with such noiseless skill. That, alone, betokened the identity of the unseen individual. The Shadow had returned to Salwood’s shop.

The shutter opened. A cloak swished softly. The sash within went silently upward. The shutter swung shut without a sound. The tiny ray of light gleamed within the big room of Salwood’s business place.

The flashlight was heading toward a definite spot: the door to Salwood’s office. The illumination concentrated upon the lock. Here, at least, Salwood had protection. The lock was of modern pattern; the difficulty of opening it was apparent.

A black-gloved hand appeared within the sphere of light. A tiny, probing instrument of blackened metal showed between the fingers. The Shadow’s deftness was undelayed. The difficult lock clicked. The Shadow entered Salwood’s office and left the door almost closed behind him.

The drawers of Salwood’s desk, like both office doors, were well fitted with heavy locks. They yielded to The Shadow’s touch. The drawers came open. In a lower one, The Shadow discovered a small package. His deft fingers opened it.

The ray of the flashlight fell upon the title of a book. The Shadow’s laugh was a whispered one. Here was the answer to Salwood’s trip to Philadelphia. The interior decorator had returned with a priceless volume from some millionaire’s collection. Carefully, The Shadow replaced the wrappings.

In the next drawer, The Shadow discovered a filing box that contained cards. These appeared to be a list of customers who had dealt with Salwood.

Swiftly, while one hand held the light, The Shadow used the other to turn the cards. The data dealt with interior decorations. Some cards were marked completed.

The Shadow’s swift hand recorded these names. A low laugh sounded as The Shadow saw the name of Shattuck Barliss. Then came a more sinister tone as Wendel Hargate appeared upon the list.

WELL did The Shadow know the real occupation in which Compton Salwood was engaged. The interior decorator had been rifling valuable collections of books and manuscripts. The theft of the Villon manuscript belonging to Shattuck Barliss had been one of his most recent outrages.

What of Hargate’s manuscript? There could not be two copies of Villon’s unique work. Did The Shadow know the answer to this problem? His soft laugh indicated understanding; at the same time, it carried a note of speculation. Among the carded names that formed Compton Salwood’s list of victims, that of Wendel Hargate occupied a peculiar place.

The Shadow came to the top drawer of the desk. There was something in his action that indicated this to be the most important. There was a reflective pause as The Shadow held his hand.

There had been distinct nervousness in Salwood’s manner from the time when he had placed letters and sheets of postage stamps within that drawer. The nervousness had been apparent while Salwood had dined at the Cobalt Club. Salwood had covered it well; yet The Shadow had observed that something was troubling the man.

The Shadow ignored letters that were in the drawer. He brought out the envelopes that contained the sheets of stamps. He picked the one that Salwood had last opened. He drew out the sheets.

The stamps were arranged in ordinary rows. There was nothing remarkable in their appearance. They were stamps of only moderate value. As The Shadow studied them, however, his soft laugh again whispered through the little office.

Although some of the stamps came from the same countries, there had apparently been no attempt to arrange them in any classification. Such indiscriminate placing of postage stamps was unusual on the part of a dealer. One noticeable fact was that air-mail stamps appeared at rather frequent intervals.

The Shadow placed the flashlight on the desk. Its glow showed the sheets of stamps. It also revealed a blank paper that The Shadow now brought to view.

The glove slipped from The Shadow’s right hand. With a pen, the fingers began to list the stamps in order, by names of countries, as they appeared upon the sheet. Wherever an air-mail stamp was present, The Shadow left a gap:

The ink had not dried before The Shadow had completed the rapid listing. The capital letters that began each name were large and evident in The Shadow’s inscription: That was premeditated. Those capital letters formed an acrostic. They spelled a message from the postage stamps:

This was the word that Compton Salwood had received from some unknown correspondent. The Shadow had discovered a code where others would have seen nothing of significance. His quick hand refolded the sheets and placed them in the envelope. At the same time, the drying ink began to take effect.

Tucson — Hendort — Econdor — the names of countries vanished one by one in order. The Shadow’s ink seemed to be governed by an uncanny spell. The last names automatically obliterated themselves just as The Shadow finished closing the drawers of Salwood’s desk.

IT was obvious to The Shadow that the stamp dealer’s name upon the envelope which contained the special sheets must be a fake one. That could be no tangible clew to the man who had sent Compton Salwood this important message.

The Shadow had a better clew — one upon which he could count. That clew was Compton Salwood himself. Unless the interior decorator had suddenly decided upon frantic flight — and his demeanor when he dined with Cranston had not indicated it — Salwood would return to this office to obtain the book that he had left.

To trail Salwood would be a simple matter for The Shadow. It was nearing eleven now. Salwood would soon be here. It was in anticipation of his arrival that The Shadow edged toward the door at the front of the decorator’s office.

There was something of the psychic in The Shadow’s maneuver. Scarcely had he reached that door before there was a click in the lock of the door on the other side of the office. With a quick glide, The Shadow slipped through the front door and closed it softly just as the rear door opened.

The flashlight was out. The door at the front was locked. On came the office lights, as some one pressed the switch. Here, in the place that The Shadow had just left, without a mark that would indicate his visit, stood Compton Salwood.

The Shadow was right. The interior decorator had returned to his office. Compton Salwood had come to prepare for the midnight appointment to which he had been summoned by a master plotter whose purposes he served.