Treasures of Death

CHAPTER VII GALBAN’S CLEW

THERE was a friendliness about old Eli Galban that made an immediate impression upon the men who had come to see him. Galban’s eyes were sparkling as they surveyed Terry Barliss.

“You remind me of your uncle,” declared Galban, in a modulated tone. “I was sorry, indeed, to learn of his death. Shattuck Barliss and I were scarcely more than acquaintances, yet I always regarded him as a friend.”

“It is about my uncle that I have come here,” stated Terry soberly. “In fact, he mentioned your name just before he died.”

“In reference to a manuscript?” questioned Eli Galban.

“Yes,” returned Terry, picking up a small brief case that he had brought with him. “I have it here.”

“I know,” nodded Eli Galban sagely. “The Villon manuscript. I saw it at your uncle’s home several months ago. When was it, Mercher? Do you recall the exact date that I went there?”

“I disremember, sir,” said the secretary, in his plaintive tone. “It was shortly after one of your severe rheumatic attacks.”

“Rather vague, Mercher,” laughed Galban. “I had so many of those. They keep getting worse as they go along. I may look healthy, gentlemen, but actually, I am in hopeless physical condition.”

“Rheumatism?” queried Terry.

“Chronic,” replied Galban. “I am used to it now, however. First I installed the elevator to eliminate the stairs. Since then, I have ceased to descend at all. It is difficult for me to even leave this chair.”

Terry Barliss was opening his briefcase while Eli Galban talked. The young man removed the manuscript which had been his uncle’s prize. Eli Galban received it. Both Harry and Terry could see the gleam that came into the old man’s eyes.

“A forgery!” exclaimed Galban, opening the volume. “That is my specialty, gentlemen — the detection of spurious manuscripts and other items of accepted value. This manuscript—”

“One moment,” interposed Terry. “I have an important question to ask you, Mr. Galban. Like yourself, I am convinced that this manuscript is a fake. In fact, my uncle stated his own belief at the time he died. That, however, is not the point. My uncle was sure that he once possessed a manuscript containing the Fifth Ballad of Francois Villon. He stated that you had seen that manuscript.”

“I did see it.”

“Then tell me. Is this the manuscript that you examined at that time?”

Eli Galban did not reply. He studied the parchment pages of the manuscript until he reached the very end. His head was nodding as he passed the book back to Terry Barliss.

“This,” he declared, “is the very manuscript that I saw at your uncle’s home. It is a forged copy of ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’ of Francois Villon. It is worthless. It contains the four ballads only; its spurious markings are obvious.”

A DISAPPOINTED look showed on Terry’s face. The young man seemed nonplused. It was Harry Vincent who took up the conversation.

“Mr. Galban,” he questioned, “can you give any reason why Shattuck Barliss would have been convinced that he possessed a unique work when he actually owned a forgery?”

“No,” returned Galban. “That was what perplexed me at the time. I saw forgery in this manuscript the moment that I looked at it. Yet Shattuck Barliss was indignant.”

“Do you think he was deluded?”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is explainable. Collectors sometimes harbor strange opinions. They build up their own love of a treasured book into a sort of mania.”

A pause. Eli Galban became reflective. He pondered for a while, then leaned back in his chair and delivered a new opinion.

“This matter of the Villon ballads is an odd one,” he asserted. “Not long after I examined the manuscript belonging to Shattuck Barliss, I learned that another collector — Wendel Hargate — had purchased what he claimed to be the only copy of Villon’s ‘Les Rondeaux de Paris’ containing a Fifth Ballad. I was naturally curious. I knew Hargate — he is a millionaire in New York — and went to see his manuscript.

“The same story held again. The moment that I looked at his manuscript, I saw signs of forgery. I told him that the work was not genuine. He was furious.

“Does Hargate still own the manuscript?” questioned Terry.

“I imagine so,” stated Galban. “He is said to have paid at least one hundred thousand dollars for it.”

“One hundred thousand!” exclaimed Harry.

“A low figure,” smiled Galban. “A very low figure, for Villon’s ‘Rondeaux’ with the Fifth Ballad.”

“Why?”

“Because I doubt that any such work exists.”

BOTH Harry and Terry looked up in surprise as they heard this statement. Eli Galban proceeded to explain.

“This early work of Francois Villon,” declared Galban, “was extensively copied. The originals — of which there are quite a number — contained only four ballads.

“Somewhere, the rumor of the Fifth Ballad found its inception. It came to be regarded as a fact. Due to the odd arrangement of the verses and their breaks, it was quite possible that some one mistook four ballads for five.

“Obviously, the Fifth Ballad, if it existed in a single manuscript, could not be imitated. Hence collectors like Shattuck Barliss and Wendel Hargate might easily mistake — through a miscounting of the ballads — any forgery of the old four-ballad manuscript for the famous missing version with its five ballads. Is that plain?”

Harry and Terry agreed that it was. Harry, however, still became persistent.

“Suppose,” he suggested, “that Shattuck Barliss possessed the copy of the much-sought manuscript in five-ballad form. Suppose that some one stole the manuscript and substituted this spurious one in its place—”

“Ah!” interposed Galban. “There you have a different story, my friend. Collectors are always in danger of theft. It is quite possible that some one, prior to my examination of the manuscript, could have substituted a false Villon.

“Possibilities, however, are not probabilities. Thieves are alike the world over. They rifle, like vandals. No, my friend, I fear your theory is without basic ground. Substitution is not vandalism. Take for instance the theft of the Mona Lisa. It was deliberately cut from its frame where it hung in the Louvre. There was no attempt at substitution.”

There was conviction in Galban’s tone. Harry Vincent’s interest was dispelled. Terry Barliss was totally discountenanced. Seeing the forlorn expressions on the faces of his visitors, Eli Galban resumed a cheery conversation.

“Shattuck Barliss,” he declared, “was well provided against theft. In addition, he had an imagined prize. No one would have visited his library to steal a forgery.

“My situation is different. Actually, I am no collector; yet certain items have come into my possession. You gentlemen saw my waxworks on the ground floor. They came from the old Antoinette Museum in Paris — an obscure place that has been closed for many years.

“In rooms on the second floor, I have odd bits of statuary, paintings, some books of fair value. I also possess Oriental tapestries. This place would be an easy prey for robbers, except for the precautions that I take.

“My man Fawkes admitted you. He is an odd sort, Corry Fawkes, but he is faithful and he is no dullard. He treats all visitors with suspicion, which is well. Then I have Mercher, who brought you here. He is faithful also. Last but not least—”

As Galban broke off his words, the door of the elevator slid open and a Japanese entered. The man was dressed in American clothes. His manner was quiet, almost servile, as he stepped into the room.

“Sanyata,” observed Galban, with his gentle smile. “I was just about to mention his name when he arrived. Sanyata, gentlemen, is my valet. He serves, also, as a guardian of my household. With Fawkes, Mercher, and Sanyata, I have little to fear.”

“Fawkes is an odd character,” remarked Terry.

“He is indeed,” agreed Galban, shifting uneasily in his chair while Sanyata adjusted a pillow behind his back. “Fawkes is—”

Galban’s voice ended; his lips writhed in intense pain as he tried to settle back upon the cushions. Sanyata sprang to his aid.

It was a few minutes, however, before the old man recovered from the rheumatic twinges that had seized his frame. Harry Vincent stared admiringly as he saw Galban fight to regain his smile.

THE cheery voice was a trifle dry when Galban again took up the conversation. It was plain that he had felt the effort of motion.

“Fawkes,” he said, “is like a huge watchdog. He is powerful, yet cautious. Intruders would fare badly if they fell into his clutches.”

“So Vincent and I decided,” remarked Terry Barliss.

“There is no danger at the front door,” laughed Galban. “You gentlemen — either or both of you — are welcome here. You must expect short treatment from Fawkes; he keeps people waiting on my doorstep. Yet I would prefer him to be blunt.

“He recognizes people whom he has seen before, but he never fraternizes. You see” — Galban smiled wistfully — “I used to be about a bit in the past. No one ever visited me here. It was a great assurance to know that all was safe during my absence.

“Mercher is exacting; Sanyata is clever; Fawkes is stalwart. With such a trio at my disposal, I had no fear. Now that I am crippled, I feel even greater security while they serve me.”

There was something in old Eli Galban’s manner that showed a weakening through effort. Having viewed the paroxysm that had come over the old man, both Harry and Terry realized that it was useless to prolong their visit. Harry glanced at Terry and caught a nod.

Both arose. Terry placed the forged Villon manuscript in his brief case. He extended his hand to Eli Galban. Together, the visitors said good night. They were ushered into the elevator by Lycurgus Mercher. The bent secretary ran them to the ground floor.

Fawkes was waiting in the waxwork room. Despite the remarks that Eli Galban had made in the servant’s favor, Harry Vincent could not repress a shudder at sight of this uncouth man. He sensed the strain of danger when Lycurgus Mercher returned to the elevator.

Fawkes, however, did no more than point to the curtains opening on the front hall. Harry and Terry followed his direction. The servant joined them. Fawkes removed a massive bar from the huge front door and showed the visitors out into the night. The door clanged shut before Harry and Terry had reached the walk.

AT the wheel of the coupe, Harry lighted a cigarette and pondered. Terry sat in silence beside him.

Both were thinking of the interview with Eli Galban; their glances were instinctively directed to the gloomy old mansion where the rheumatic man resided high on the third floor.

“Well,” decided Terry, “that matter is settled. My uncle was evidently a dupe. Nevertheless, I am glad we saw Galban. His recognition of the false manuscript was proof sufficient — at least, to me.”

“Yes,” agreed Harry, “he gave us a new slant on the Villon situation. The man is unquestionably an expert at detecting forgeries; his fund of information is also large.”

Sitting in the darkness of the car, the two continued an easy resume of their visit. After several minutes, the conversation reached the inevitable: Corry Fawkes.

“Fawkes gave me the creeps,” admitted Terry. “I wouldn’t like to live in the same house with him.”

“Galban says he is reliable,” inserted Harry, “but I must admit I didn’t feel safe with him around.”

“I guess with old Mercher and the Jap there, it’s easy for Galban to keep Fawkes in hand.”

“Yes; but he is a monstrosity, nevertheless.”

In the pause that followed, Terry Barliss uttered a musing grunt.

“Let’s get away from here,” he suggested. “I’ve got a hunch that some one is watching us. It seems almost as though every word we said was being heard.”

Harry Vincent emitted a hollow laugh. He was trying to down the same feeling of an unseen presence. He started the motor. The coupe rolled into the night.

Eli Galban’s mansion loomed dimly in the darkness after the car had moved away. It was like a living creature, waiting motionless to swallow up its prey. The house, itself, seemed a sufficient reason to have caused Terry Barliss concernment.

Then came the sign of a closer cause. Directly beside the spot where the coupe had been, a swish sounded in the dark. A living form came into being. It stood invisible, shrouded by the thickness of the night.

Burning eyes were directed on the old mansion. A whispered laugh lost itself in darkness, caught by the sighing of a light wind. Unseen, the watching figure drifted toward the row of deserted houses that adjoined Eli Galban’s stronghold.

That figure was the answer to Terry’s suggestion of listening ears and watching eyes. It had been lurking by the coupe, waiting for Galban’s visitors to emerge from the mansion. Nothing betokened the invisible being’s identity; yet the very silence of motion gave the answer.

Harry Vincent and Terry Barliss, during their visit to Eli Galban, had been under the protection of one whose purposes they were serving. The Shadow had come to this forlorn, deserted spot. He had been here to make sure his agent and his friend had safely completed their appointed mission.