Treasures of Death

CHAPTER XVI THE STROKE OF CHANCE

WENDEL HARGATE’S eyes were upon the door of his study. The millionaire was awaiting the arrival of his visitor. The door opened. Terry Barliss entered alone.

Hargate received Terry quietly. The millionaire’s face was suave — almost perplexed in its feigned expression. Hargate extended a hand in welcome and invited Terry to a seat beside the desk.

Taking his own chair, Hargate eyed his visitor and opened the interview with a natural question.

“Have you come here,” he asked, “to discuss the death of Compton Salwood?”

“I have,” returned Terry.

“It was most unfortunate,” observed Salwood.

“The man was a crook,” said Terry. “I feel no regret because he has died.”

“I do.” Hargate’s tone was emphatic. “It means considerable in my affairs. I had hopes of regaining the stolen Villon manuscript. Now that Salwood is branded as the thief, I should prefer that he was still alive.”

“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Terry. “After all, I have suffered a loss equal to yours. More so, perhaps, because my manuscript represented the bulk of my uncle’s estate.”

Wendel Hargate had settled back into his chair. His hands were folded under his chin. His face was set as he studied Terry Barliss.

“Your expression of loss,” remarked the millionaire, “is of somewhat doubtful basis. Perhaps, Barliss, you are pursuing a useless quest.”

“How?”

“By seeking an imaginary possession.”

“You mean—”

“That you have no definite evidence that your manuscript was ever stolen.”

The cold challenge brought an angry sparkle to Terry’s eyes. Hargate appeared unperturbed; yet he did not fail to notice Terry’s look.

“Barliss,” declared Hargate, “you are working on a false hope. You are trying to regain a possession which is not yours. There could not be two bona fide copies of Villon’s Les Rondeaux de Paris. One must be false. That is evident.”

“So long as there is one,” rejoined Terry, “I expect to gain it. I am willing to take my uncle’s word that it is mine.”

“Perhaps,” said Hargate dryly. “But just how far will your claim go? Let us suppose that the manuscript is recovered. How will you manage to identify it?”

“Wait until that time arrives.”

“I intend to do so. Then I shall produce witnesses to prove that the manuscript is mine. Remember, Barliss, I have actually owned the Villon manuscript, while you have never seen it.”

THE cold tone aroused Terry’s ire. The young man threw away all discretion. He stared at Wendel Hargate and met the millionaire’s challenge with an angry glare.

“My hands are clean,” asserted Terry. “Remember that, Hargate!”

“I am speaking of a point at law,” came the response. “I insist — and I have the proof — that the Villon manuscript belongs to me. Nevertheless, I am willing to make you a fair deal.”

“Regarding the manuscript?”

“Regarding the manuscript. It is mine, by definite right of purchase; yet I am willing to offer cash for your release of ownership.”

“Then you admit—”

“I admit nothing. I simply state that I bought that manuscript for one hundred thousand dollars. It was a bargain at the price. I am a collector; I purchase all my items. You, evidently, are interested only in the money. I want the manuscript; you want cash. Let us talk terms.”

Terry sat astonished. He wondered what Hargate’s game could be. The millionaire slid open the top drawer of the desk and brought out a typewritten sheet of paper.

“I have anticipated your visit,” remarked Hargate. “Therefore, I have prepared this agreement. I want the Villon manuscript. While I possessed it, the affairs of other persons did not concern me. Now that I have lost it, I am quite willing to be as generous as possible.

“This agreement reads that you relinquish all claim to Villon’s ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’ with the Fifth Ballad. Your signature is all that is required. I agree to pay you the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, for relinquishment of claim, after the manuscript is recovered.”

“That sounds like a catch,” retorted Terry.

“It is not,” said Hargate, adopting a sincere tone. “I possess a bill of sale to the manuscript; one that I can produce if required. However, circumstances might make it unwise for me to show that document.

“Therefore, I am willing to duplicate my previous price in order to do you justice. Sign this paper. Then either of us can claim the manuscript when it is discovered. It will come to me in either event. You will be satisfied.”

TERRY BARLISS was on his feet. His eyes were flashing. He saw craftiness behind Wendel Hargate’s offer. Throwing off restraint, he hurled bitter accusations.

“I see your game, Hargate!” cried Terry Barliss. “You have a fake bill of sale — one that you need not show me. It bears the name of Compton Salwood. To produce it, you must meet a charge of murder, for you will have to explain your purchase.

“Compton Salwood stole my uncle’s manuscript. He placed it in your hands. The bill of sale is faked. It will not stand. You have the Villon manuscript. You intend to keep it. You think that my signature to a pretended agreement will give me hope of financial gain. You will never produce the manuscript. I shall be left high and dry.”

“Wrong,” remonstrated Hargate, with an emphatic shake of his head. “I am dealing squarely with you, Barliss. This agreement does not specify how the manuscript may be recovered. It states that I must show it when I regain it.”

“A simple matter to avoid.”

“I do not intend to make it simple. I expect to give you a fair deal. I admit that there are circumstances which I cannot explain at present. Why should I? The cash offer is a liberal one.”

“You can’t trick me, Hargate,” declared Terry. “If your ideas are on the level, why don’t you tell the world? This is what I expected — hedging on your part—”

“The matter concerns us alone.”

“Yes? Perhaps. I wonder what Detective Cardona would say about this offer. Suppose I consult him first?”

“I want Cardona to know nothing!” hissed Hargate. “I intend to pay you the money when the time comes. But I do not intend to hand out so large a sum as one hundred thousand dollars while the manuscript is still missing.”

“That’s all I want to know,” remarked Terry, in a decisive tone. “I expected a crooked deal and I have found it. I thank you only because of the promptness with which you have handled this interview. I am leaving. Good night!”

“Where are you going?” demanded Hargate.

“To detective headquarters,” returned Terry Barliss, making a turn toward the door.

Before the young man could make a farther move, Wendel Hargate reached into the desk drawer and whipped out a revolver. He covered his guest with the weapon. Terry stopped short and stared fiercely at the man who had trapped him.

“Sit down,” ordered Hargate.

Terry obeyed. The millionaire lowered the revolver and laid it on the desk. He pointed to the agreement that was also on the desk.

“Sign this,” he growled, “and forget all about Cardona. I’m giving you good advice, Barliss.”

SLOWLY, Terry reached for pen and ink. The Shadow, watching from the alcove, edged slowly forward. His left hand appeared. It was holding a double-ended vial. The left hand, gloved, approached the ungloved right and performed an operation upon thumb and second finger. The left hand disappeared with the small glass container.

The Shadow had sensed the approach of danger. Much though he wished to avoid meeting these two who were planning their own affairs, he saw that he would have to intervene if tragedy threatened.

The tall form of The Shadow was inside the window, ready to move forward. The burning eyes were upon the tense men at the desk. Both Terry Barliss and Wendel Hargate were fully occupied. Neither suspected the presence of the ghostly visitant in black.

“I’ll sign,” agreed Terry, in a shaky voice. “There’s no other way out—”

As he spoke, Terry dropped the pen and made a grab for the revolver. He gained the weapon just as Hargate caught his wrist. Leaping backward toward the alcove, Terry tried to free his hand. He failed.

The two men locked in a fierce struggle. The Shadow did not move. Sprawling along the floor, the fighters were coming in his direction. The Shadow held his right hand poised forward, thumb and second finger separated. He was prepared to deal some unexpected stroke that would change the tenor of this conflict.

Terry’s hand came free. At the same instant, Hargate leaped for the young man’s throat.

Fighting for life, the millionaire was savage. Choked, Terry lost his hold upon the revolver. It fell to the floor. Instinctively, Terry managed to regain it.

As Hargate sought to beat Terry’s head on the floor, the younger, man turned the gun muzzle upward. The fighters rolled into the alcove, where they could be seen upon the floor from the closed door of the office. The fierce struggle had developed into a frantic battle for life.

One moment might have decided the result of this equal conflict. Hargate was ready to shatter Terry’s skull. Terry was about to press the trigger of the gun. It was then that The Shadow entered.

Gripping the window frame with his left hand, he reached forward with his right and snapped his thumb and forefinger. The result was astounding. From The Shadow’s fingers sounded a loud report; with it, a flash of blinding flame.

A stunning reverberation filled the room. Terry Barliss dropped limp, the revolver clattering toward the window. Wendel Hargate lost his hold on Terry’s throat. The millionaire rolled, helpless, on the floor.

THE SHADOW’S strange explosion had brought an end to the fray. A weird laugh echoed through the room as The Shadow leaned toward the stunned combatants and plucked the revolver from the floor. Swinging backward toward the window, The Shadow raised his eyes.

A slight click — scarcely audible amid the echoes of explosion and laugh — had caught The Shadow’s attention. It was the loophole in the door. The aperture had opened. Through it was thrust the muzzle of a revolver; above the gun end were a pair of sharp eyes.

Up came The Shadow’s right hand. His quick finger was on the trigger of the revolver that he had gained. Just as his swinging aim neared its hastily chosen target, a shot burst through the loophole.

The Shadow faltered. His arm dropped and the revolver clattered from his grasp. Half outside the window, his form a target for a second shot, The Shadow took the only course that could have saved his life.

It was not the bullet that made him grasp this choice. It was the instinct of the master fighter that was at work. With right arm crippled, with suction cups put away, The Shadow made a wild gesture just before another shot blazed forth. The second bullet was too late to reach the black-cloaked form.

Silently, with a reckless, hopeless swing, The Shadow lost his hold and toppled helplessly backward out into the night. His black cloak swished as it caught the breeze. Downward plunged The Shadow, into the alleyway below!

Chance had played its trickery upon The Shadow. The black phantom of the night had been beaten to the shot! A single bullet and the following threat of a second leaden messenger had sent him hurtling to the depths!