“The swag goes in the touring car,” responded Slug. “I’m driving away alone. You gorillas use the sedan.”
Two forms shoved through an opening in the hedge. Slug caught himself, almost stumbling. The men moved along toward the house. The Shadow glided after them. When he reached the side door, the mobleader and his henchman were no longer there. The pair had gone inside.
The Shadow followed. He reached a narrow stairway. He took it to the second floor. He paused outside the door of a room. He could hear low mumbles; the glare of a flashlight was full upon the combination of a vault. Slug Bracken was working while “Muff” Motter held the light.
THE SHADOW edged back into darkness. Five minutes passed. Then came a muffled growl. Slug Bracken was boasting to Muff Motter.
“Say” — the words were audible to The Shadow — “this box was a cinch. There’s the piece of junk we want. Lend a hold, Muff. We’ll drag it out.”
A sliding sound; then came the shuffle of feet. The light was out; Slug and Muff were coming past The Shadow’s post, carrying a heavy object between them. Against the dim light of the stairway window. The Shadow could see that they were carrying a small, chairlike throne that was evidently of considerable weight.
Carefully, the two men made their way down the stairs. They reached the doorway below. Thumps were muffled enough to make no great noise. The Shadow had followed to the steps. He paused to stare from the window. He could distinguish the two forms moving toward the hedge.
Once again, The Shadow’s actions had been paradoxical. He had deliberately allowed the two crooks to enter and open Bexler’s vault. He had permitted them to carry away the collector’s most cherished possession, the Persian throne of the boy king!
Why had The Shadow failed to act? Was he heeding Tyrell’s threat? That was a logical answer. For The Shadow, as he descended the stairs, paused by a door that led to a front room. The buzz of voices reached his ears.
Hubert Bexler was entertaining guests in a room on this side of the house. The windows of that room opened directly toward the hedge. Had trouble started in the house, mobsmen could have opened fire with direct aim.
By ignoring the theft of the throne, The Shadow had prevented possible murder. At the same time, he might have acted with certainty. He could have overpowered Slug Brackett and Muff Motter while they were at the door of the vault. Meanwhile, Cliff Marsland could have disposed of the two outside mobsters who thought that he was one of their own ilk.
All had been set for an easy victory on the part of The Shadow and his agent. Quick shots by The Shadow and Cliff would have prevented any attack upon Bexler and his guests. Yet The Shadow, still passive, had preferred to continue his waiting game. He had brought along his automatics only for emergency.
Two cars were easing away from beyond the hedge as The Shadow reached the lawn. He retraced his way to the limousine. He opened the door softly and deposited black garments in the bag. The automatics followed. Stanley, half-asleep behind the wheel, did not hear the door open; nor did he hear it close.
IN the side room of his house, Hubert Bexler was talking to three other men when the door bell rang. A servant went to answer it. The lone menial returned, ushering in Lamont Cranston. Hubert Bexler advanced to receive his guest.
“Well, well!” exclaimed the gray-haired collector. “I am pleased to see you, Cranston. You promised to drop in on me some time—”
“I was driving by,” interposed Cranston. “Just thought that I might find you still up at this late hour.”
“Meet my friends,” said Bexler. “Business associates from Chicago. They are the cause for my absence from Gault’s this evening. I suppose you were there, Cranston?”
“No,” responded the new guest. “I had business here on Long Island.”
Cranston shook hands with Bexler’s friends, while the gray-haired collector introduced them by name. Then came another ring at the door. The servant answered it; he returned to announce that Detective Cardona had arrived.
“That’s right!” recalled Bexler. “Show him in, Cuthbert. I was telling you gentlemen about this man from headquarters” — Bexler turned to the men from Chicago — “and I mentioned that he might be here this evening to look at my vault. Ah! Here he is.”
Joe Cardona had entered. Bexler stepped forward to meet him. As he shook hands with Bexler, Cardona nodded to Cranston. The detective’s face wore a serious expression that Bexler did not notice.
“I decided you were not coming,” declared the gray-haired man. “After all, I can depend upon my vault. I think that you will agree with me that it is quite secure.”
“Not after what happened to-night, Mr. Bexler,” returned Cardona, seriously. “The crooks have struck again.”
“What!”
“I have just come from Gault’s. His jeweled Buddha has been stolen.”
“The Buddha from the old temple in Yamagata! Impossible! Gault had it in a vault as strong as mine!”
“He took it out of the vault. He showed it to a party of guests in a paneled room. The Buddha was stolen from there.”
“With the guests present?”
“Yes. But the room was dark. I can give you the details later. Right now, I’m thinking about your possessions, Mr. Bexler. Is that throne of yours safe?”
“Certainly. It’s in the vault, upstairs.”
“I’d like to look at it. We are dealing with some mighty smart crooks, Mr. Bexler. That’s why I came out here. I couldn’t trace Gault’s Buddha. I decided to make sure that your throne was protected.”
“Come upstairs. All of you” — Bexler turned to the others — “and see my vault. My word! Gault’s Buddha, with its emeralds! It’s worth as much as Dutton’s Sicilian tapestry, or Brockthorpe’s Chinese screens.
“But my Persian throne, too, is equal in value to that Buddha. Come along” — Bexler was moving toward the doorway to the stairs — “and see it for yourselves. While you are examining the vault, Cardona, the others might as well view my one great prize.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, Bexler halted the group. He had turned on a light from below; he was ready to enter the room in which the vault was located.
“I alone know the combination to my vault,” he stated. “I change it frequently and never keep a record of it. One time I forgot the combination” — Bexler paused to chuckle — “and we had to call in a paroled expert who had done a term in Sing Sing. It took him two hours to open it.
“I changed the combination again after that episode. I always make it a policy to have no one in the room while I turn the combination. Therefore, gentlemen, you will wait here until I call you.”
“Of course,” agreed Joe Cardona, impatiently.
Bexler turned on a light as he stepped into the room. He swung toward the vault, which was visible to him alone. A hollow gasp came from his lips. He clasped his hands to his chest and stared, motionless.
Joe Cardona sprang to Bexler’s side. The others followed. All saw the reason for the collector’s gasp. Before them was the opened door of the vault. In the light that entered from the room, they could see that the vault was empty.
“Gone — gone” — Bexler’s voice was an almost incoherent stammer — “my Persian throne. A quarter of a million — gone—”
HALF an hour later, a group of sober guests left Hubert Bexler’s home. Detective Joe Cardona had found no reason to hold them. Hubert Bexler himself had insisted that they could not have aided in the theft of his Persian throne.
It was apparent that the burglars had entered by the side door of the house. The door, like that of the vault, was open. Cardona decided that they had opened the formidable vault and had removed the throne while Bexler was engaged with his guests.