Treasures of Death

CHAPTER V UNSEEN STRATEGY

THE old brownstone house where Terry Barliss lived seemed different by the light of day. The sinister aspect of the side street had vanished. In its place was a quiet but decadent neighborhood.

When Harry Vincent pulled his coupe to the curb, he felt positive that he was pursuing a useless course. Harry decided that The Shadow’s plan had gone awry. Nevertheless, it was his job to follow instructions as given.

Harry glanced at the stoop-shouldered figure beside him. Crablike, old Hawthorne Crayle was preparing to step from the coupe. Harry was afraid the old curio dealer would fall. He reached out a hand to help him; but Crayle shook it off and managed to gain the sidewalk.

Harry and his companion were admitted to the house. The solemn servant who opened the door ushered them into the living room. A few minutes later, Terry Barliss appeared, carrying a book under his arm.

“Mr. Crayle?” he questioned.

Harry’s companion arose. He held out a quivering hand that Terry Barliss accepted. Then, with sudden recollection, he turned toward Harry Vincent.

“This is Mr. Vincent,” explained The Shadow, in the cackling voice that belonged to Hawthorne Crayle. “He was kind enough to bring me here.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Vincent,” said Terry.

Harry Vincent shook hands. He found himself liking Terry Barliss at first sight. Harry and Terry were of a type; both clean-cut and decisive in manner.

“I am glad that you have come here, Mr. Crayle,” began Terry, as he seated himself. “I find myself perplexed by what seems to be an unsolvable mystery. Something may be wrong; at the same time I may be mistaken.”

“I am no detective,” came the old man’s cackle. “I came here to see the Villon manuscript—”

“That is exactly why I am glad that you are here,” interrupted Terry. “I understood from my uncle that he had shown the manuscript to different persons. Some seemed to think that it was genuine.

“I was not one who saw it.”

“But perhaps you can tell me if it is actually the manuscript which my uncle claimed to own.”

The stooped head was shaking, the long hands were faltering as The Shadow reached for the manuscript which Terry Barliss extended. As old Hawthorne Crayle, The Shadow was performing a perfect impersonation.

“I am no authority on rare books,” he crackled. “I am a dealer in curios. Nevertheless, such a remarkable object as a parchment manuscript comes into my field of endeavor. Perhaps—”

The false Crayle was opening the volume as he spoke. His fingers were turning the pages. At last the crackling voice returned, together with another shake of the head.

“This is not a Villon original,” was the statement. “It is spurious — and for one so astute as your uncle, it seems unlikely that he could have believed it genuine.”

“Exactly!” affirmed Terry. “That is what I have maintained. Rodney Glasgow, my attorney, feels somewhat as I do. He has been unable to help me, however. All that he has done has been to give me items of information, none of which have aided me.”

TERRY BARLISS looked directly at the face of Hawthorne Crayle. He detected a gleam in the eyes that were before him. Those optics seemed to urge him to continue; yet no word was spoken. Looking at Harry Vincent, Terry again saw an expression of interest. He paced across the floor and began to speak.

“My uncle,” he declared, “died with that manuscript in his hands. He claimed that it was a unique work, ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’, an authentic manuscript of the French lyric poet, Francois Villon.

“The manuscript should have contained five ballads. It has only four, however. That places it in a comparatively valueless class at the outset; moreover, it leaves genuineness of the manuscript a matter of considerable doubt.”

Terry paused to consider certain facts. When he resumed, he expressed himself with deliberation.

“Detective Cardona,” he asserted, “advised me to gain some specific information. So far, I have obtained none. My uncle placed that manuscript in his wall safe, prior to his final illness. As proof of the fact, I have the testimony of the nurses and I feel sure that it will be corroborated by my uncle’s physician.”

“Did they see him put the manuscript in the safe” questioned Harry.

“No,” returned Terry, “they did not. That is why I know the manuscript must have been there for two weeks. My uncle was confined to his bed for that period. Those visitors who came to see him were never out of sight of the physician or the nurses.”

Harry Vincent was displaying intense interest. He knew now that he was not following a blind lead. The Shadow had evidently known that Hawthorne Crayle had intended to visit Terry Barliss. This was certainly the quest that had been deputed to Harry.

“My uncle’s servant,” added Terry, “is a very trustworthy man. He claims that he knew nothing of the wall safe and I believe him. Outside of Doctor Fullis and Rodney Glasgow, there was no one who visited my uncle regularly. Only one man came more than once. That was Compton Salwood, the interior decorator.”

“Why did he come to see your uncle?” questioned Harry, when he noted that Hawthorne Crayle seemed stupidly disinterested in the conversation.

“He makes a specialty of renovating old houses,” explained Terry. “My uncle had fixed up his little library; a few months ago, Salwood came to offer an estimate on the rest of the house. Salwood had not done the library decoration; he merely studied that room and arranged to make a figure for the remainder of the second floor.

“He returned about a week ago and chatted for a short while with my uncle. Then he came four days ago and left his estimate. The matter was dropped, however, pending a partial recovery by my uncle.

“I mention Salwood only because he represented the most extensive visitor. The nurse was in and out of the room while he was here the last time. My uncle, as was his habit, was drowsy. Yet the nurse states that Salwood could never have moved from the chair beside my uncle’s bed. So he could not possibly have gained access to the wall safe.

“It is obvious, gentlemen, that my uncle stored the Villon manuscript himself; and it is also apparent that no one could possibly have taken it from its hiding place.”

“Your uncle” — these words came suddenly in the crackling tones of Hawthorne Crayle — “seemed sure that he had a genuine Villon manuscript. He claimed that people had pronounced it genuine. Now if some expert had maintained otherwise—”

“That’s it!” broke in Terry. “There was an expert who termed it spurious. He was probably the last one who saw it; he came here only a few months ago.”

“His name?”

“Eli Galban.”

A withered smile appeared upon the countenance of Hawthorne Crayle. It was not to Terry’s liking. He seemed to be annoyed by it.

“Eli Galban,” declared The Shadow, in his false crackle, “is highly recognized. I have heard of him. His opinion is to be valued.”

“So I believe,” admitted Terry. “Therefore, I am inclined to believe that my uncle was in error. There is no use of my seeing Eli Galban.”

“Why not?”

“Because he has already declared this manuscript to be a fake.’

“Yet he may have been mistaken.”

“That is true—”

“And if, by some odd chance, the real manuscript has been stolen and replaced by this false one, Eli Galban might give you information.”

“You’re right!” exclaimed Terry Barliss. “I never thought of it before! Say — if I could see this fellow Galban! Where does he live?”

“Somewhere in New Jersey, I believe,” came Crayle’s crackle. “It would not be difficult to find out where.”

“Could you go to see him with me?”

A negative shake was the response. “I must go to Cincinnati,” decided The Shadow, in his role of Crayle. “I would advise, however, that you took some one with you. Galban may be a trifle obscure in his statements. Some one who has at least a passing knowledge of manuscripts—”

A pause. A light appeared in the eyes that accompanied the face of Hawthorne Crayle, as those eyes turned toward Harry Vincent.

“Mr. Vincent!” exclaimed The Shadow, with Crayle’s characteristic chuckle. “He is the very man! He seems interested in this matter. Perhaps, Mr. Barliss, he would be willing to work with you.”

“Gladly,” asserted Harry, with sincere promptness. “This is of great interest to me, Barliss. I have leisure time at present; I should like to visit Eli Galban when you take your manuscript to him.”

“Agreed,” returned Terry. “This is fine of you, Vincent. I have been ready to drop the matter entirely; now, I consider it worth while to at least see Galban.”

The Shadow was rising from his chair. With the stooped shoulders and withered face of Hawthorne Crayle, he appeared as an almost pitiful figure.

“I am returning to my office,” he declared. “By taxicab” — these words were accompanied by a sour smile — “despite my dislike of such vehicles. I must go to Cincinnati. You, Mr. Vincent, will wish to stay here and discuss matters with Mr. Barliss.”

Harry Vincent caught himself on the point of volunteering to take Hawthorne Crayle downtown. Harry was still playing circumstances. He realized that this break would leave him with his new friend, Terry Barliss. It suited Harry exactly.

Hence Harry said nothing. He watched Terry Barliss go to the hallway, he saw the stooped form of Hawthorne Crayle bending beneath the overcoat. Then Terry had ushered the old visitor to the front door and was returning.

“Perhaps we can see Eli Galban tonight,” suggested Harry. “I’ll try to find out where he lives. There are several places that I can call for information.”

“Good,” returned Terry. “It seems hopeless, though. After all, the only way a genuine manuscript could be taken would have been before my uncle placed it in the safe. He might have put the false one there. I am assuming, of course, that it had been substituted for the real.”

“Which seems doubtful.”

“Except for the fact that the only way my uncle seemed to recognize that this one was not genuine was when he found the Fifth Ballad missing. He might not have examined the manuscript so closely when he placed it in the safe.”

His statement finished, Terry Barliss shook his head. He seemed to be giving up his own theory. Harry Vincent nodded to agree with him.

SOMETHING was stirring in the hallway. Neither Harry nor Terry knew that some one was there. The door had opened; the form of Hawthorne Crayle had returned to linger. The old man’s face was the same; his figure, though, was erect.

The Shadow in form; Hawthorne Crayle in countenance. The Shadow had returned long enough to catch Terry’s last words. Amid the gloomy silence that followed, The Shadow turned to the door and made a silent departure.

Stooping like Crayle, this visitor to the Barliss home hailed a taxicab and crackled a destination to the driver. In the cushions of the rear seat, his set face relaxed. A soft, whispered laugh replaced the chuckle which had been Hawthorne Crayle’s familiar affectation.

The Shadow knew that Terry Barliss had unwittingly hit the truth. The only time at which a genuine Villon manuscript could have been stolen from Shattuck Barliss was while the bound volume rested in the library.

A substitution would have done the trick. The removal of the genuine — the replacement of an imitation, without the Fifth Ballad — was a deceit that Shattuck Barliss might not have discovered, prior to the night when he had died.

Harry Vincent and Terry Barliss were to visit Eli Galban. The two were friends, through the efforts of the person whom both had taken for Hawthorne Crayle. The Shadow, however, had gained a clew which both young men had completely overlooked, even thought it had been discussed.

Because of his own knowledge, his own study of the events surrounding the death of Shattuck Barliss, The Shadow had seen significance in the visits of Compton Salwood, the interior decorator whom Terry Barliss had mentioned.

Salwood — by Terry’s statement — had made at least three trips to the old brownstone house. On one, a few months previous, he could have taken the genuine Villon manuscript. On the first visit during the illness of Shattuck Barliss, Salwood could well have learned the old man’s critical condition and the fact that Terry Barliss was being summoned to New York. On his final visit, Salwood might easily have substituted the useless capsules for the potent ones.

The Shadow had gained results. His agent was with Terry Barliss. The two were going after further information, which Harry Vincent would report to The Shadow. In the meantime, The Shadow, himself, could learn more concerning the interior decorator, Compton Salwood.

The unseen strategy was at work. Yet the laugh that reverberated softly within the confines of the taxicab was no token of success. It was a presagement of unexpected obstacles that blocked the path ahead.

The Shadow knew that he had started on the trail of crime; along that trail he foresaw complications. Lurking danger cried a sinister warning to any who might seek the source of subtle crime. Lurking danger was threatening, even to The Shadow!