“I think we can do it,” returned Fenwick. “This is Saturday. The jeweler stays open until ten. Dagwood is at home. But I’ll have to head for Sharport pretty quick. I wouldn’t want to call Dagwood from Fargo.”
“Get going then,” ordered Kistelle. “I’ve got a car. Bought it yesterday over the phone. It’s waiting for me at a garage. Leave the rest to me. When you come out of that jewelry store, with Raymond Dagwood, give the crescent sign. I’ll be watching. You say it takes ten minutes to go from the jeweler’s to Dagwood’s?”
“Right.”
“You can get to the store at half past nine,” declared Kistelle, thoughtfully. “Then, after you’re gone with Dagwood and the jeweler, I can wait until just before closing time at ten.”
Fenwick nodded, and Kistelle pointed toward the door. Fenwick arose; then hesitated. He curved his right thumb and fingers so they formed a crescent. Pointing them upward, he said:
“All clear.”
Then, turning his hand so that the crescent points were down, he added:
“Lay low.”
Kistelle laughed and again pointed to the door. Fenwick departed.
Kistelle waited several minutes, then picked up his suitcase and strolled down to the lobby.
The clerk was not at the desk. Kistelle printed some words on a card:
Craig Kimble checked out. Will notify you of forwarding address later.
Kistelle was chuckling to himself as he walked along a street toward the garage where a car was waiting for him. He had paid his hotel bill in advance. He was through with Fargo now.
AT the garage, Kistelle found the proprietor. Keeping his face turned away as though looking for the car that he had bought, Kistelle introduced himself as Henry Adams and asked about the car.
The owner led him to the rear of the garage. There Kistelle saw a small coupe. He put his bag in the back, peeled off two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills and paid the money to the garage man.
Then the new purchaser drove his car out to the street. He stopped to let the garage owner fill the tank. After that, Kistelle pulled away.
As the coupe rolled along the dim side street from the garage, a figure emerged suddenly from a darkened front of a deserted building. Like a living phantom, it swept through the slowly moving coupe. With a swift leap, it landed silently upon the rear of the coupe and nestled down within the tire rack.
To all appearances, this living being immediately became nothing more than a large, dark bundle jammed upon the back of the automobile. Charles Kistelle had no suspicion of what had happened behind him. He did not realize, as he headed along the road to Sharport, that he had gained a mysterious passenger.
In fact, Charles Kistelle was so engaged in a chuckling soliloquy that he had very little thought of anything except the road ahead. He was talking, half-aloud, as the car rolled along.
“Another swell job tonight,” were his elated words. “There’s nobody can spoil this game. Nobody — not even The Shadow!”
The mention of that name brought a contemptuous sneer to the lips of Charles Kistelle.
“The Shadow!” he repeated. “That’s the guy that was after Charley Kistelle. Fine chance he has of ever finding me now. This is the last place he would ever be — on my trail!”
Kistelle’s chuckle sounded above the roar of the speeding motor. Little did the evil plotter suspect that he was not alone — that the very man whose name he had ridiculed was riding five feet behind him.
Charles Kistelle was starting out to commit a perfect crime. The Shadow was accompanying him! The fourth plot of the evil men was destined to encounter unexpected consequences!
CHAPTER XVII
INTO THE NIGHT
SARGON’S JEWELRY SHOP was the most pretentious store in the prosperous town of Sharport, North Dakota. On Saturday night, when the main street of Sharport was crowded, the store stayed open until ten o’clock. Occasionally, worthwhile business came in just before closing time.
This night, James Sargon, the proprietor, was seated in the little office back of the store when Maurice Cotter, his trusted junior partner, came in to inform him that Raymond Dagwood and Horace Fenwick had come to the shop.
“Show them in!” exclaimed Sargon, in a pleased tone.
The two men entered and Sargon, rising to greet them, rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. He proffered a box of expensive cigars and sat down at his desk after the visitors were seated. Cotter, the junior jeweler, remained at the open door so that he could see the visitors and the outside shop as well.
James Sargon, the jeweler, was a prosperous-looking man who had done well in his long term of business. He was elderly and of obsequious manner. His understudy, Maurice Cotter, was a young man who aped his superior. Both were servile in the presence of Raymond Dagwood, who was reputed to be the most wealthy man in Sharport.
Dagwood was a stout, imposing individual who was filled with self-importance. Most of the natives of Sharport lived in awe of him.
Horace Fenwick, who had come to Sharport less than a year ago, was one of the few who managed to work up a real acquaintance with Raymond Dagwood. Hence, Dagwood, like so many puffed-up persons of his type, had made Fenwick one of his real confidants and the two were on the most friendly terms. Dagwood felt that those whom he favored should be accorded the same respect that he gained.
“Good evening, Sargon,” said Dagwood, in a condescending tone. “Mr. Fenwick was at my home this evening. Dropped in to see me and we began talking about those diamonds that I have considered buying from you. I should like to have Fenwick see them.”
“Certainly, Mr. Dagwood,” said the jeweler with a bow. “I shall be glad to show them to you. A wonderful collection, Mr. Fenwick. Wonderful!”
He arose and opened a door at the rear of the office. It led to a strong room. The visitors entered; Sargon followed. Maurice Cotter went back to attend the shop.
James Sargon opened a large safe and brought forth flat boxes which he placed upon a table. He opened them one by one to display a collection of glittering diamonds.
As he had said, the gems were of high value. Dagwood pointed out certain pieces to Fenwick.
“Here is the list,” remarked Sargon, taking a sheet of paper from the safe.
Fenwick nodded. He glanced at the list of items and gave it back to Sargon. Finishing a brief inspection of the gems, Fenwick signified that he was satisfied.
“What do you think of them, Mr. Fenwick?” questioned Sargon, as he began to replace the boxes.
“Quite good,” responded Fenwick. “I fancy that they are worth the amount that you have asked.”
Sargon laid the list in the safe with the boxes and closed the door of the strong box. He turned to Fenwick and spoke in a convincing tone.
“They are worth every bit of three hundred thousand dollars!” he declared. “Indeed they are, Mr. Fenwick, indeed they are! You know their history — they came from the Davis estates and I obtained them in hopes that Mr. Dagwood would buy at least a portion of them. I shall hold them for a while longer, because I am sure that Mr. Dagwood will buy.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” returned Dagwood, brusquely. “Nevertheless, you can count upon at least a partial sale, Sargon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dagwood,” bowed the jeweler, “thank you. I am keeping these while I await your decision. The diamonds are safe here” — he looked about the room approvingly — “because I have fitted this room with every device for security. Only Cotter and myself can enter here. We have spared no pains in assuring the best of protection.”
“I was looking at Mr. Dagwood’s present collection of gems,” remarked Fenwick, in a matter-of-fact tone. “He tells me that he has never gone in for jewels to any great extent.”