Through Harry’s confused brain drummed one final impression. It was a thought that left him worried; one that made him feel the sting of failure. Harry knew that crime had gained another victory. That one idea predominated.
Mark Tyrell had matched wits with The Shadow. Tyrell had triumphed. Another master theft had been accomplished. The Shadow had failed to prevent it.
Harry, secret agent for both, had been the logical man to turn the balance from Tyrell to The Shadow. Yet Harry had failed. Theft in the dark had left The Shadow’s agent in total ignorance of how the crime had been accomplished.
Mark Tyrell had performed three master strokes of crime. Harry had heard of the first; he had spotted the method of the second; he had completely failed to trace a single feature of the third. Mark Tyrell, in Harry’s estimation, was more than a shrewd schemer. The man was a wizard.
What other tricks lay in Tyrell’s bag? How would The Shadow fare should he meet Tyrell in actual combat? Harry felt a sinking feeling. Confident though he was in The Shadow’s prowess, he feared that his weird chief had encountered the insurmountable at last.
Hunches were not frequent with Harry Vincent; when he had one, it generally proved correct. As he stood in Ferrell Gault’s living room, Harry gained a new impression — a fearful thought that he could not shake.
Looking to the future, he could picture a grim scene. Mark Tyrell and The Shadow engaged in a fierce duel — the thought was not pleasant. For Harry found himself forced to the conviction that a criminal who could produce so amazing a theft as that of the jeweled Buddha would be a terrible antagonist when it came to mortal combat!
CHAPTER X
THE FOURTH CRIME
“BURBANK speaking.”
The words were uttered in a quiet tone by a man who sat in front of a table in a lonely room. Head and shoulders were back to the dim light that came from a hanging lamp. The man’s face was out of sight; his right hand was resting on a plug that he had inserted in a switchboard.
“Marsland,” came a steady voice over the wire.
“Report,” ordered Burbank.
“With Slug Bracken,” informed Cliff. “Due to meet him at his car in three minutes. We’re going to Hubert Bexler’s.”
“How many all together?”
“Five. I think Slug will pull the job himself. He’ll make the getaway alone. With the swag. That’s all.”
“Report received.”
Burbank pulled out the plug. A few moments later, another light glistened. Burbank plugged in to receive a report from Harry Vincent.
One hour had elapsed since the robbery at Ferrell Gault’s. Harry and the other guests had been allowed to leave. Satisfied that Pug Halfin was nowhere about, Harry was calling Burbank to give a brief report of the mysterious occurrences at the millionaire’s.
“Report received.”
With his final statement. Burbank withdrew the plug. He made a quick insertion in the switchboard, for another light was glowing. As he received a response to his statement of identity, Burbank promptly recognized the new speaker.
It was The Shadow, talking in the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston. Tersely, Burbank gave Cliff’s report; then followed with Harry’s story. That completed — no orders followed — Burbank pulled out the switch and settled down to await new calls that might not come for hours. Burbank seldom performed active duties for The Shadow; his passive endurance, however, made him an agent of unique value. As contact man, he never tired, no matter how long his vigil might be.
IN the lobby of a downtown hotel, Lamont Cranston was speaking to Doris Munson. Cranston had just made a telephone call. The next plan was an after-theater lunch in the grill room of the hotel. Quietly, Cranston offered an apology.
“I was talking to Hubert Bexler,” he told the girl. “I promised to call his home this evening. He is anxious for me to come there at once.”
“Any trouble?” questioned Doris, anxiously.
“He fears a robbery,” explained Cranston. “Like those at Dutton’s and Brockthorpe’s. He seems very anxious for me to visit him. Would it be asking too much—”
“Of course not,” interposed Doris. “You must certainly go to Mr. Bexler’s at once. I can take a taxi home.”
“No, indeed,” returned Cranston. “My limousine is outside. I shall have Stanley drive us to your apartment house. I may be a few minutes later than Bexler expects; that will not matter.”
Cranston accompanied the girl to the street. They entered the globetrotter’s limousine. Stanley received his orders. Fifteen minutes later. Lamont Cranston said good night to Doris Munson in the lobby of the girl’s apartment house.
ROLLING onward in his limousine, Lamont Cranston rested back upon the cushions. Stanley was bound for Hubert Bexler’s. A soft laugh came from Cranston’s immobile lips. That whispered mockery was an echo of The Shadow’s mirth.
Three crimes had been accomplished. The Shadow, though he had not prevented them, had gained an insight into Mark Tyrell’s methods. In his sanctum, he had mapped out the schemer’s ways of working.
His own observations — the reports from his agents — his preliminary survey gained from his first contact with Tyrell at the Paragon Hotel — all had served The Shadow well. To-night, by keeping an engagement with Doris Munson, he had deliberately absented himself from the scene of crime. He had paved the way for Tyrell’s scheme.
Why? Did The Shadow fear Tyrell’s threat regarding the lives that might be at stake? That could have been the answer. At Dutton’s — at Brockthorpe’s — at Gault’s, to-night — there had been danger to innocent persons. The Shadow was thinking of the darkness in the paneled room, which Harry Vincent had reported. A shot in that blackness could have spelled quick death.
There was another explanation, however, of The Shadow’s actions. Perhaps it was the reason for the soft laugh in the limousine. By playing a passive part as Cranston, The Shadow was giving Tyrell the definite impression that his threats had struck home. The Shadow was making himself appear to be a soft antagonist. When would the pretence end? Only The Shadow knew!
The limousine had crossed the East River. It was speeding along a broad highway. Hubert Bexler lived on Long Island, in an exclusive residential district. Stanley chose a road that led to the right. Half a mile on, he turned into a gravel drive and pulled up in front of Hubert Bexler’s home.
The house was a gloomy structure, lighted only at the front, downstairs. But Lamont Cranston was not looking toward the house. He was busy in the back seat of the limousine. From a briefcase that he had drawn into view, he was extracting cloak and hat; also a pair of automatics.
Stanley had stopped the car past others that were parked in the drive. The door opened by the back seat; unseen by his chauffeur, The Shadow glided from the car. Stanley heard the floor swing shut. He supposed that Lamont Cranston had stepped from the limousine.
There was a narrow lawn at this side of Bexler’s house. Beyond it was a hedge. It was this path that The Shadow took. He ignored a walk that led to a side door; instead, he weaved a way close by the hedge. He avoided trees and shrubbery without difficulty.
Low voices made The Shadow pause. Listening by the hedge, he heard men speaking. Among the whispers, he recognized the tones of Cliff Marsland. Then came a growl from the leader of this hidden crew.
“I’m going in with Muff.” The Shadow knew that Slug Bracken must be speaking. “You birds stick out here. If there’s any racket, use your gats. You know how. That’s all.”
“Afterward?” came Cliff’s question.