“I fancy that my gems would bring about thirty thousand dollars,” interposed Dagwood. “I should scarcely call it a collection, Horace.”
“You have some nice items,” replied Fenwick, “and it was my suggestion” — he turned to Sargon — “that Mr. Dagwood should have his own jewels appraised carefully before going ahead with this contemplated purchase. Suppose, Sargon, that you look them over?”
“Gladly! Gladly!” responded the jeweler. “Any time, Mr. Dagwood. I should indeed be pleased to appraise your jewels—”
“We are going back to your house,” suggested Fenwick, turning to Dagwood. “Of course, Mr. Sargon can not well leave here—”
“Indeed I can,” interposed Sargon, quickly. “It is nearly closing time and Cotter is in charge here.”
“A good idea,” declared Dagwood. “Come along, Sargon. My car is outside. You can ride up to the house with us. I’ll have you look over my jewelry right away. I might dispose of some items in connection with the purchase of these diamonds that you have.”
The three men left the strong room, Sargon carefully closing the door behind them. The jeweler spoke to Maurice Cotter and explained where he was going. The three men left by a side door which locked automatically after they had departed.
As they passed under a dim street lamp, Horace Fenwick raised one hand. He made a slight motion as he formed his thumb and fingers into a crescent sign. The thumb and fingers were turned upward.
A car was parked in the darkness across the sweet. A man, seated at the wheel, made no response. But he had seen that sign. Charles Kistelle — for he was the watching man — smiled grotesquely in the darkness.
At the same moment, a figure detached itself from the side of Kistelle’s coupe. Moving silently, it reached the sidewalk and followed the three men who were walking along the street to Raymond Dagwood’s limousine. The phantom form attached itself to the rear of the big car.
When Dagwood’s limousine arrived at the wealthy man’s mansion, ten minutes later, it stopped directly behind Horace Fenwick’s small sedan. Raymond Dagwood alighted, accompanied by James Sargon and Horace Fenwick. The chauffeur drove up the drive, avoiding Fenwick’s car.
Dagwood, Sargon and Fenwick entered the mansion. Not one of them turned to look back. None saw the phantom shape that followed noiselessly. The three entered the house. Dagwood was speaking as he led the way through the door.
“We shall go right upstairs,” he said. “I have the jewels in a safe in my bedroom. You can look at them right away, Sargon.”
Fenwick was the last to enter the door and he paused suddenly. He fancied that he had heard his name whispered in the darkness. He seemed to recognize the voice of Charles Kistelle. He paused on the door sill.
“Chicquatil!”
The whispered word startled Fenwick. It was the countersign that he had given Kistelle tonight in Fargo. In an instant, he decided that something must have gone wrong; that Kistelle had hurried here to intercept him.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he called to Dagwood, who, with Sargon, was halfway across the ground-floor hall. “I just want to see that my car is all right. I may have left the key in it.”
“All right, Horace,” called back Dagwood.
Fenwick stepped outside and closed the front door. He moved into the darkness toward the spot where he had heard the whispered word. He stopped — a cry of surprise caught upon his twisted lips.
Two burning eyes were staring from the darkness. The muzzle of an automatic was rammed against Fenwick’s ribs. He had walked into a perfectly laid trap.
“Come!”
The command was uttered in a sepulchral whisper that made Fenwick’s limbs quiver. He did not know the identity of this person in the dark; but, instinctively, his mind leaped back to a night, long ago, when he had been riding northward to the border line of Mexico.
“The Shadow!”
Charles Kistelle had uttered that name on the last night — and the strange title had stuck in Fenwick’s mind. The Shadow — the only man whom Charley Kistelle had feared. Could this be the weird personage who had driven the master crook into obscurity?
THE man who called himself Horace Fenwick did not know. He realized only that he had met his master; that he was walking mechanically toward the driveway at the bidding of an invisible being, who had materialized from nowhere to overwhelm him with fear such as he had never before known.
They were going toward the car. The whispered voice was stern and sinister. It was ordering Fenwick to take the wheel. The crook obeyed. The threatening automatic still pressed against Fenwick’s body. The eyes were glaring; but Fenwick did not see them. He was staring straight ahead, obeying The Shadow’s command.
The whisper gave the destination. Fenwick nodded shakily and started the car. He could do nothing but obey, for he realized that a moment’s hesitation would mean his doom. He was going back to the jewelry store, at The Shadow’s bidding.
Fenwick uttered a scarcely audible groan as he followed the route toward the place from which he had so recently come. A distant chime was striking ten. They were going back into the night — Horace Fenwick and The Shadow — to the spot where the master crook was now at work!
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SHADOW STRIKES
TEN o’clock. Maurice Cotter extinguished the lights in the jewelry store. He walked back into the office for a few moments; then went out to leave by the side door. Everything was in perfect order.
The young man stopped suddenly. He could hear a light tapping against the small window of the side door. He stopped and peered through. He saw a white face pressed against the glass. Drawing a flashlight from his pocket, Cotter turned it to see who was there. He breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized the odd features of Horace Fenwick.
Freed from worry, Cotter opened the door and admitted the man who was waiting. The explanation of Fenwick’s visit was immediately forthcoming.
“I got here just in time, Cotter,” the visitor declared. “I thought I could make it before you left. Sargon wants that list describing the diamonds. I think he’s going to make a sale tonight.”
“Good!” exclaimed Cotter with enthusiasm. “Come in, Mr. Fenwick, come in!”
He closed the door and conducted the visitor through the darkness. Cotter turned on the office light and operated the mechanism that opened the door of the well-protected strong room. Another light came on and Cotter went to the safe.
“We appreciate your interest, Mr. Fenwick,” he declared, as he turned the combination of the safe. “The list is right here with the diamonds. I’ll give it to you right away. Mr. Dagwood has a real opportunity in buying these diamonds, but he has been very slow about making up his mind. I am indeed glad that he is considering a decision tonight. Here is the list—”
Cotter’s words ended. His jaw dropped. Turning, he had found himself staring into the gleaming muzzle of a revolver, held in the hand of Horace Fenwick. A hideous, twisted grin was on the face before him.
“Hand over those diamonds!” ordered Fenwick, in a sneering tone. “Wait — move over that way. I’ll get them myself.”
Cotter, surprised, obeyed stupidly. Covering him with one hand, the robber used the other to draw forth the boxes containing the valuable gems. With this task completed, he swung sharply upon Cotter.
The young jeweler could not understand this situation. He knew Horace Fenwick to be a trusted friend of Raymond Dagwood. He had never imagined such an event as this could occur. Gasping, he raised his voice in faltering protest.