Treasures of Death

CHAPTER IV THE FIRST STEP

DAY had dawned in Manhattan. A young man, attired in a dressing gown, was standing by a window high in the huge Metrolite Hotel. He was a husky chap, with a firm, frank face. He seemed well contented with life as he viewed the city beneath.

A telephone bell began to ring. Reluctantly ending his study of the great metropolis, the young man turned back into the room and answered the call. A slow, methodical voice greeted his ear.

“Is this Mr. Harry Vincent?”

“Yes,” replied the young man.

“This is the Climax Chemical Corporation,” came the slow tones. “We have been waiting to discuss a new transaction with you. How soon could you keep an appointment with our man?”

“Within an hour,” returned Harry Vincent.

“Very well,” was the phoned decision.

The moment that he had ended the call, Harry Vincent became active. He dressed hurriedly, in preparation to leave the hotel. His speed indicated that he must have some important business on his mind.

This was true; yet Harry’s business did not concern either the purchase or sale of chemicals. There were two words in the morning message that had roused him to all haste. Those were the final words that had come over the wire: the words “our man.”

A simple, natural statement, but to Harry those words were a key to what lay ahead. “Our man” meant R. Mann. The enunciation was the same. R. Mann was Rutledge Mann, an investment broker in the Badger Building.

Within a half hour after he had received the call, Harry was entering the Badger Building. He knew that he was on the trail of adventure. For Harry Vincent, who posed as a gentleman of leisure at the Metrolite Hotel, was an active agent of The Shadow.

WHEN Harry was needed, The Shadow summoned him. Frequently the call came through Rutledge Mann, who served as a contact worker in The Shadow’s service. It was natural for a man of Harry’s prosperous appearance to make occasional calls to an investment broker’s office.

Suite 2121 was Harry’s objective. When he reached this office on the twenty-first floor, he opened the door and entered. A stenographer arose, recognized the visitor and tapped at the door of an inner office.

A few moments later, Harry Vincent was talking with a quiet, full-faced individual who sat lazily at a flat-topped desk. This was Rutledge Mann. A sheet of black paper lay beside the investment broker’s hand. Harry knew that Mann had received a coded message from The Shadow.

“Vincent,” began Mann, “I have an unusual appointment arranged for you. I would suggest that you keep it shortly before noon. You know where the Drury Theater is located.”

Harry nodded.

“Three buildings past the old theater,” resumed Mann, “is a small, antiquated office building. On the fourth floor, you will find the office of Hawthorne Crayle, a man who deals in curios. You are to visit Crayle.”

“For what purpose?” inquired Harry.

“That will be decided later,” stated Mann. “Simply call on Crayle, state that you are interested in curios and make friends with him. Should he request a service of you, perform it. Follow that line of action, wherever it may lead.”

Harry Vincent nodded as he arose to leave the office. He knew the location of the Drury Theater, near Times Square. He knew that he would have no difficulty finding the curio dealer’s office. He realized that he was taking up some mission for The Shadow’s service; like all such projects, this one would surely show surprising consequences.

Also, Harry realized that Rutledge Mann was probably in total ignorance of what lay ahead. Mann had received an order from The Shadow. He had passed the word to Harry. Mann’s part of the job was ended.

It was not yet ten o’clock. Harry left the Badger Building and strolled along Broadway. He was timing himself to reach Crayle’s office shortly before noon.

MEANWHILE, an event was already taking place at the old building where Crayle’s office was located. A tall, obscure figure was ascending a pair of dilapidated stairs. Arrived at the fourth floor, this shape stopped in front of a dingy door.

In the gloom of the hallway, where little daylight penetrated, it was difficult to distinguish objects. Yet there was something sinister in the visitor’s bearing — an indication which betokened his identity. The Shadow had come to the office of Hawthorne Crayle.

The figure moved away. Where it had been, a patch of yellow remained — an object the size of an envelope. The Shadow had gone from sight, hidden in a door across the way.

Twenty minutes passed. Tapping footsteps came from the stairway. An old man arrived in view. He picked his way through the gloomy hall and thrust a key into the lock of the old door. A flood of daylight reached the hallway as the door opened.

It was then that the old man noted the yellow object on the door. He removed it with shaky hands.

This man was Hawthorne Crayle. In the light of his office, the curio dealer appeared as a tall, stoop-shouldered old fellow, the very type that one would have expected to find in so dingy a surrounding. Crayle’s face was wizened, his whole bearing was that of the recluse.

The object that Hawthorne Crayle had taken from the door was a yellow envelope. The old man opened it and fished out a telegram. He scanned the lines and uttered a gleeful chuckle.

Crayle dragged out a dilapidated suitcase and opened it. He fumbled with the combination of a safe, opened the metal door and brought out two small Buddhas of gold. He packed them in the suitcase, closed the door of the safe and left the office, taking the grip with him.

As soon as Crayle’s footsteps had ceased to echo from the stairway, The Shadow again appeared. His firm hand applied a metal instrument to the door. The spring lock gave. The Shadow entered Crayle’s office.

The light that came from the window revealed a most amazing sight. The Shadow, vague though he had been in the hallway, was not cloaked in his garb of black. He was wearing a tawdry overcoat and battered hat, both of a dark color; his countenance was in plain view.

Yet no one who had seen that face could possibly have gained a key to The Shadow’s true identity. In every feature, The Shadow’s visage was the exact counterpart of Hawthorne Crayle, the old curio dealer who had so recently left the office.

REMOVING his hat and coat, this duplicate of Hawthorne Crayle began to busy himself about the office. He was familiar with the place, and in every action he was characteristic of the old curio dealer.

The yellow telegram was lying where Crayle had left it. The false Crayle picked it up and chuckled in the old man’s fashion as he read the message. The telegram was from a wealthy man in Cincinnati, asking Crayle to come at once and bring along the two valuable Buddhas that he owned.

Hawthorne Crayle would never know what had inspired that sale. The Cincinnati collector had received a wire describing the gold Buddhas. The message had been sent him by The Shadow, under a special name. The collector had acted as The Shadow had expected.

There was a telephone in Crayle’s office. The false Crayle picked it up and dialed a number. He chuckled as he waited for the reply. When it came, the false Crayle talked in a crackly voice:

“Mr. Terry Barliss?” he questioned. “This is Hawthorne Crayle… I once knew your uncle… Yes, yes, I am very sorry to have learned of his death. I saw the obituary in the newspaper.”

A pause while the pretended Crayle listened. Then, in loquacious fashion, he began again:

“I am calling, Mr. Barliss, because of something your uncle once told me. I am a curio dealer… Yes… Your uncle had a manuscript… Yes, that was it… A collection of original ballads by Francois Villon… What? You think that it is spurious?… Certainly. I should be glad to give you my opinion… This is surprising, Mr. Barliss… Yes… At your home… I shall come there this afternoon.”

More chuckles as the pretended Crayle hung up the receiver. Time drifted by while he waited. Noon was approaching. Listening behind the little counter where he stood, The Shadow heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

The approaching person was coming to the curio dealer’s office. The visitor turned out to be Harry Vincent. The Shadow, playing the part of Hawthorne Crayle, looked inquisitively toward this man whom he did not seem to recognize.

“My name is Vincent,” announced Harry, in an affable tone. “I am somewhat interested in curios. I thought that I would drop in to see your place.”

“You are welcome,” returned the old man, “but you have arrived just before I am leaving. I have an important appointment to keep; all that I lack is the required transportation.”

“I have my car,” responded Harry, remembering that Mann had instructed him to perform any service that Hawthorne Crayle might ask of him.

“Ah!” exclaimed the old man. “That would indeed be useful. I should not care, however, to impose upon you, Mr. Vincent.”

“No trouble at all,” interposed Harry. “I have nothing to do this afternoon. If I can be of service to you—”

“You can,” came the crackly reply. “What is more, Mr. Vincent, if you are interested in unusual items that attract collectors, I may be able to show you one where I am going. An original manuscript of Francois Villon — at least that is what it was supposed to be. Now, I am informed, it may be spurious.”

Harry Vincent caught the gleam of sharp eyes. Harry feigned interest. He nodded to indicate that there was nothing he would like to see so much as a Villon manuscript.

“Let us go,” decided the pretended Hawthorne Crayle. “I have promised Mr. Barliss that I will be there early this afternoon. There is no time like the present. He is living uptown. I am glad that you have a car; I do not care for taxicabs.”

“We will have to take a cab to the garage.”

“Is it far?”

“Only a few blocks.”

“We can walk then.”

THE false Hawthorne Crayle donned hat and overcoat. He pointed to the telegram that lay upon his counter and chuckled as he did so.

“A man in Cincinnati wants to buy my gold Buddhas,” he remarked. “I must start there today — after I have called on Mr. Barliss. Let us go, Mr. Vincent” — shaky hands were rubbing together — “because this is a very, very busy day for me.”

Harry Vincent was perplexed as he accompanied the old man down the dingy stairs. He heard the crackly voice of Hawthorne Crayle continuing in loquacious fashion. The old man was talking about his golden Buddhas, about curios in general and particularly about the Villon manuscript.

It occurred to Harry that Hawthorne Crayle must know people in many walks of life. As they went along the street toward the garage, Harry became more puzzled.

Did The Shadow know that Crayle had intended to go to Cincinnati? Did The Shadow know that Crayle had an appointment to call on a man named Barliss?

Whatever the answer, Harry was at least performing his appointed duty. As an agent of The Shadow, it was his policy to obey every order from his mysterious chief. He had been told, through Rutledge Mann, to play in with any wish of Crayle’s. Harry was following instructions.

They reached the garage. Harry obtained his coupe. He and his companion entered the car. As they swung out to the avenue, a hand gripped Harry’s arm and a crackly voice requested him not to drive too fast.

Harry Vincent nodded. He smiled as he shot a glance at the withered face of his curious companion. He drove the car at an easy pace, wondering if he were traveling to an important destination or merely following a blind lead.

Hawthorne Crayle continued his crackly conversation. The smile still remained on Harry Vincent’s lips. It would have changed to a look of amazement had Harry known the true identity of his talkative companion.

Not for one instant did The Shadow’s agent suspect that the rider beside him was The Shadow himself!