Treasures of Death

CHAPTER IX THE INTERIOR DECORATOR

THE SHADOW was in his sanctum. The blue light gleamed while deft fingers opened envelopes that contained clippings and coded reports. The girasol sparkled with a mystic spell.

The clippings were brief. They stated, in short items, that a valuable manuscript had been stolen from the home of Wendel Hargate. The paragraphs were lacking in detail.

The reason was found in the first report that The Shadow inspected. It came from Harry Vincent. In careful detail, The Shadow’s agent had described the events at Wendel Hargate’s. Most important, however, was the aftermath that had followed Hargate’s recognition of the fact that his manuscript was missing.

There had been a conference in which the millionaire had definitely admitted that he was in the same dilemma as Terry Barliss. Each possessed a manuscript that the expert, Eli Galban, had labeled as spurious. There was no definite evidence of possible theft.

Hargate’s subsiding had surprised Harry Vincent. After the first outburst, the millionaire had become very sober. While he had termed the matter as a theft, he had also expressed a complete inability to account for any way in which a false manuscript could have been substituted for a real one.

A cursory inspection had been made of other books in Hargate’s library. No further volumes appeared to have been touched. The millionaire had also expressed anxiety regarding albums of rare postage stamps that he kept in his study safe. These proved to be intact.

Hargate’s chief desire had apparently become a wish to avoid publicity. He had requested Joe Cardona to minimize the theft. The detective had agreed to do so; hence the newspaper reports were meager. This was puzzling to Harry Vincent; but an explanation was forthcoming to The Shadow when he opened another report.

This message was from Clyde Burke. The reporter had talked with Joe Cardona at headquarters. The detective had expressed a theory of his own — but not for publication.

Cardona held the hunch that Wendel Hargate had been swindled when he originally purchased the Villon manuscript. Hargate had tactfully avoided any mention of the actual purchase. Yet he had given indications that made Joe see the swindle theory as a clear one.

Until Hargate offered further information, Joe Cardona could not make a move. As in the Barliss case, the alleged theft now under consideration was a matter of considerable doubt.

Cardona, a veritable bloodhound when on the trail of rampant crime, had become very wary in this situation. He was a practical sleuth who needed definite evidence before acting.

THE SHADOW opened a third report. This was a brief one, from Rutledge Mann. The investment broker had called Compton Salwood, the interior decorator, whose shop was located on a side street near Fifth Avenue. He had learned that Salwood was out of town, but was expected back before the store closed this afternoon.

The light went out in The Shadow’s sanctum. There was a slight swish, a soft laugh; then silence. The Shadow had departed. His mysterious trail was one that left no trace. Whenever he appeared following a sojourn in the sanctum, his presence always manifested itself in some remote neighborhood.

Such was the case today. Although the sanctum, with its windowless walls, had indicated nothing but total darkness, Manhattan was still basking in daylight at the time The Shadow left his secret abode.

Afternoon was waning. Heavy traffic was traveling Fifth Avenue. Half an hour after The Shadow had set forth from his sanctum, an expensive limousine swung into a side street and pulled up in front of the interior decorating establishment managed by Compton Salwood.

The person who stepped from the limousine was one of remarkable physical appearance. Tall, attired in expensive business suit and dark gray hat and overcoat, he appeared to be an individual of wealth. The uniformed chauffeur watched him from the wheel of the limousine, expecting further orders.

“Call for me at the Cobalt Club, Stanley,” ordered the tall person who had alighted.

“Very well, Mr. Cranston,” responded the chauffeur.

Cranston crossed the sidewalk and entered the shop. A clerk approached him. Cranston extended a card. He inquired if Mr. Salwood had returned. The clerk said “yes.” He took the card and went through the shop toward a rear office.

A few minutes later, the clerk came hurrying back. His manner was most deferential. He conducted the visitor to the office and ushered him into the room. Compton Salwood, standing by the desk, was all bows as he welcomed this visitor.

There was a reason. The card that lay on Salwood’s desk bore the name of Lamont Cranston. To Compton Salwood that name was of importance. Lamont Cranston was recognized by the elite of New York. A multimillionaire, he was noted for his lavishness. In Cranston, Salwood saw a possible customer who would rank above all others.

THERE was a distinct contrast between Lamont Cranston and Compton Salwood. The millionaire possessed a dignity that went with his bearing. As he removed his hat and overcoat, the erectness of his form became more apparent. His features, too, showed remarkable traits.

Cranston’s countenance was a chiseled one. His hawkish nose gave him a distinctive expression. His sharp eyes showed a keenness. His cheeks and lips were so firm as to be almost masklike.

Compton Salwood, on the contrary, was a shrewd, nervous type of man. Heavy and of medium height, he looked the part of a successful business man. His rounded face had a scheming look; his partial baldness added to it.

Salwood remained standing until his visitor had taken a chair beside the desk. Then Salwood seated himself.

The light was coming from above Lamont Cranston’s shoulders. It made the millionaire’s face a trifle obscure; it also revealed Compton Salwood’s countenance so plainly that every change of expression would be apparent to the visitor.

This was a fact that Salwood did not notice.

There was something else that the interior decorator failed to see. Hidden by the edge of the desk, Cranston’s shadow lay along the floor. It formed a streak of complete darkness beneath the light, and its extremity formed a peculiar silhouette.

There was something sinister in Cranston’s shadow. It might have troubled Salwood had he observed it. The darkness on the floor signified the presence of some invisible being. It lay as a mark of identity.

Salwood’s visitor had introduced himself as Lamont Cranston. Actually, he was some one other than Cranston. He was a personage who had adopted the guise of the well-known millionaire for the definite purpose of catching Compton Salwood unaware.

Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!

COMPTON SALWOOD, eager to do business with a man of wealth, was thinking of nothing but interior decorating. Talking glibly, he was bringing the subject to matters of business. A quiet smile appeared upon the lips of Lamont Cranston.

“I have been anxious to see you, Mr. Salwood,” stated the millionaire. “I understand that you make a specialty of redecorating elaborate rooms.

“I do,” acknowledged Salwood. “In fact, I have just returned from Philadelphia, where I supervised the complete rearrangement of a prominent banker’s home.”

“You have wealthy clients—”

“Many,” interposed Salwood. “But I make it a practice never to divulge their names. That, Mr. Cranston, is the chief reason why I am making a success of business.”

“I understand,” nodded Cranston. “It is better that recommendations should come from your customers themselves.”

“Exactly. It would be a great mistake for me to refer to work that I have done as though I had some ownership in the home that I had decorated. That is a very definite way in which to lose good customers. A prominent man asks me to arrange his home. I do so. He admires my work — until he begins to receive letters from outlandish persons stating that they would like to visit his place to see a sample of my ability as a decorator. No, indeed, Mr. Cranston! I would never do business in that manner.”

“You are wise. In fact, that is the reason why I have come to you to discuss the redecorating of my New Jersey home.”

“Ah!” Salwood’s eyes gleamed. “I should be pleased to estimate upon the work, Mr. Cranston. Pleased indeed.”

“I possess some valuable curios” — Cranston’s voice was coming in an even monotone — “that occupy a room by themselves. They must be considered in the decorating. I am a trifle worried about them—”

“You need not worry,” interposed Salwood emphatically. “I make provision for all such matters. I have decorated such rooms before. I have rearranged complete libraries. Such work is done under my own supervision. I take care that nothing is misplaced. I understand the feelings of collectors.”

“You are one yourself?”

“Slightly.” Salwood smiled. “Postage stamps are my particular hobby. I have also gone in a bit for rare coins. I find the stamps more interesting, however.”

Salwood picked up some envelopes as he spoke. He sorted them and showed three to Cranston.

“I have not opened these as yet,” said the interior decorator. “They were here when I returned. Stamps on approval from dealers.”

“Curios are my specialty,” smiled Cranston. “Of course, I have some rare books also. I regard them more as curios. They are unique—”

A momentary flicker of interest showed in Salwood’s face. It faded quickly. The interior decorator presented the impression that he knew very little concerning book collections.

“Suppose,” suggested Cranston, “that you dine with me at the Cobalt Club? I can tell you then exactly how my house is laid out. A few days from now, you can come out to my home.”

“Excellent,” agreed Salwood. “I shall be pleased to accept your invitation, Mr. Cranston.”

“We can start there now.”

“Very well. Can you allow me just a few moments to glance through these letters?”

“Certainly.”

Salwood ripped open envelopes, spread out letters and looked at them hurriedly. He followed by opening the envelopes that contained the postage stamps. His glances here were quick, until he opened the final envelope. He paused to study the rows of stamps.

His lips moved slightly; then formed a forced smile. Salwood looked up to see Cranston quietly watching him.

“My hobby caught me for a moment,” remarked Salwood. “These can wait until tomorrow. I shall enjoy going over them then.”

He replaced the sheets in their envelopes, thrust the containers in a desk drawer and locked it. The office had two doors. Salwood made sure that the rear one was locked; then he walked out with Cranston, locking the front door behind him.

SALWOOD spoke to the clerk who was closing shop. While they talked for a few brief moments, Cranston’s eyes roved toward the side windows of the larger room. The place was small, more like a consultation room than a shop. It was well furnished, but had no items on display. Salwood noted Cranston’s glances. He laughed as he rejoined the millionaire and they went out together.

“Nothing of value in my place,” remarked Salwood. “Rather unusual for an interior decorating establishment. That’s because of my way of doing business. I am not a dealer in stock items. I am a consulting expert on interior decoration.”

“So I understand,” returned Cranston.

A taxicab was pulling to the curb. Cranston and Salwood entered. Cranston’s eyes took a last keen glance toward the front door of Salwood’s place of business.

There was significance in that glance. The very simplicity of Salwood’s shop made it well protected. Scarcely more than a ground floor office, it offered no attraction whatever to burglars.

As the taxicab rolled away, the thin smile showed on Lamont Cranston’s lips. Compton Salwood was talking about interior decorations. It was obvious that the man was building up a plan of a visit to Cranston’s home. He was talking about some night this week.

Little did Compton Salwood suppose that Lamont Cranston was thinking about a visit to the shop which they had just left. That would be a visit when Salwood was absent — a visit on this very night!