“We’re going up to Laustin’s on Thursday night, Valdo. The girl — Shirley — is throwing a shindig and Lorenna will give readings. Lorenna already has told the girl that the topaz pendant is a charm against bad luck. Leave it to Lorenna; she’ll do some real pumping Thursday night.”
“Very good.” nodded Valdo. “You have told me what Lorenna just said. But why did you not want to tell me all this, Jerwyn?”
“Because I’ve got nothing yet,” argued Jerwyn. “I won’t have until Thursday night. Maybe not then. That’s why I didn’t want to talk tonight. You savvy, Valdo?”
“I understand.” Valdo nodded. “You are good gajo, Jerwyn. You are good — like Rom.”
“That’s the way to talk. Listen, now, Valdo. You leave this job to me and Lorenna. Tell your friend to have his thirty grand ready — but stay away until after Thursday night.”
“I do that,” nodded Valdo.
The gypsy extended his hand. Jerwyn grasped it. Turning, Valdo started for the door. The Shadow glided back into darkness. He watched the gypsy cross the hall and leave by the side door.
Claude Jerwyn peered from the room. The cadaverous man laughed. Sure that Valdo had gone, he went back and resumed his study of the files.
SILENTLY, The Shadow edged from darkness. He followed Valdo’s path. He reached the side door, made his exit and locked the barrier behind him. A few minutes later, he was on the silent street.
A laugh amid the darkness. Whispered mockery, it revealed The Shadow’s thoughts. The master sleuth had learned much tonight, through his belated visit to Claude Jerwyn’s home.
Jerwyn had stalled. He had tried to lull Valdo into believing that all would be well. The gypsy, despite his mild leave-taking, had not fallen for the bluff. The Shadow had heard his words to Jerwyn — ‘you are good — like Rom’ — but he had seen an expression that had belied the statement.
Valdo, as he had crossed the hall, had worn a cunning smile. His gleaming teeth were proof that he had spotted treachery.
The Shadow, like Valdo, had detected symptoms of a double-cross. Jerwyn had spoken truthfully regarding Thursday night; but he had told only half his story.
What Jerwyn learned on Thursday, through Lorenna’s aid, Jerwyn would use for his own game. Rodney Casper was not the only one who sought the Spanish gems.
Cliff Marsland’s report on “Muggsy” Wagram was fresh in The Shadow’s mind. The Shadow could see beyond. He had gained the fact he needed. He knew why Muggsy was enlisting the aid of new gorillas.
Marty Lunk was the man behind Claude Jerwyn’s game. The missing mobleader was coming back, to beat Rodney Casper to his goal. Would he succeed? Or would Valdo, by guessing the full truth, enable Casper to thwart the scheme?
Those questions would remain unanswered for the present. One fact, however was definitely settled.
Rodney Casper or Marty Lunk — whichever reached the goal first — would encounter The Shadow as guardian of the Spanish gems!
CHAPTER XI. THURSDAY NIGHT
IT was Thursday night. Cars were drawn up in front of Howard Laustin’s Long Island residence.
Shirley’s party — the one to which Lorenna had been invited — was in progress.
The set-up was similar to Murnick’s. One room had been arranged as Lorenna’s seance parlor.
Debutantes, excited in their conversation, were eager to test the gypsy woman’s power as a fortune teller.
In contrast to the gaiety of the party was the quiet of Howard Laustin’s study. There, within paneled walls of oak, the retired manufacturer was enjoying his cigar while he chatted with an unexpected visitor — Lamont Cranston.
“You picked a poor night to drop in to see me, Cranston,” the manufacturer was saying. “But, after all, your misfortune is my gain. When Shirley gives a party, the house belongs to her — all except this room.”
“It is quiet here,” remarked Cranston. “After all, Laustin, you are entitled to company also.”
“You’re the last person I ever expected to see,” returned Laustin. “The last time I saw you was on the boat coming home from Rio de Janeiro. That was the time when—”
“When you told me your house was always open,” interposed Cranston, with his quiet smile. “You suggested that I drop in to see you. So I have accepted the invitation.”
“After five years!” laughed Laustin. “You have a good memory, Cranston. Yes — five years — I made that trip to Rio two years before I retired. Do you remember Shirley, then — how anxious she was to know when we crossed the equator?” Laustin chuckled. “Now she’s grown up — parties five nights a week — and it seems like half of them are in this house.”
Laustin puffed at his cigar. Then slowly shaking his head added:
“How these young folk crave novelty! Tonight, it’s a gypsy fortune teller. They have a room rigged up like a tent. Did you see that smug-faced fellow prowling about the hall?”
Cranston nodded.
“His name is Jerwyn,” stated Laustin. “Manager for Madame Lorenna, the celebrated gypsy queen. Cross her palm with silver — or a ten-dollar note — and she’ll tell your past, present and future—”
There was a knock at the door. Laustin gave the order to enter. A servant appeared.
“Mr. Casper is here, sir,” he said. “Shall I usher him in here?”
“Yes,” ordered Laustin. “At once, Tobias.”
“Who is Mr. Casper?” inquired Cranston, in a casual tone, as the servant closed the door.
“An Englishman,” stated Laustin. “Rodney Casper, of London. He called me by telephone, this afternoon. He is connected with Stollwood, Larksbury, Limited — a concern with whom I had business relations when I manufactured carpeting.
“This chap Casper is a friend of Cecil Larksbury. Told me that Larksbury instructed him to call on me—”
Laustin paused. The door had opened. Tobias stood aside while Rodney Casper entered the study.
Howard Laustin arose to meet the guest. He introduced Casper to Cranston.
HALF an hour later, the three men were engaged in pleasant conversation. Their discourse was running the gamut of international topics. Howard Laustin, smiling pleasantly as he puffed a perfecto, was experiencing keen enjoyment.
The retired manufacturer had welcomed the visit of Lamont Cranston because he appreciated the keenness of the globetrotting millionaire. As a raconteur, Cranston was unequaled. His diversity of conversation was remarkable.
Now Laustin had met a man who ran Cranston a close second. Rodney Casper, also a traveler, was chatting on European subjects in a style which indicated remarkable knowledge as well as observation.
Laustin had dropped into the role of listener. Cranston’s easy, even voice; Casper’s smooth English accent; both were music to the manufacturer.
“Spain?” Casper chuckled as he responded to a question put by Cranston. “I know the country well. Madrid — Seville — Barcelona! Ah! There, sir, is the city par excellence.”
“Where the people devote the afternoon to the siesta,” observed Cranston. “and the evenings—”
“To enjoyment. Gardens with tinkling fountains; under soothing breezes; with bottles of ruby wine—”
“Until daybreak.”
“Yes. Only dawn can spoil those Barcelona nights.”
“I have never been to Spain.” asserted Laustin. “I understand that the country has fared badly since the revolution. The old nobility — the grandees — have disposed of their fortunes for a song. Only last week—”
He paused to reply to a knock at the door. Lamont Cranston’s keen gaze was directed on Rodney Casper. Hawklike eyes saw the expectant gleam that had appeared on Casper’s countenance.