As Joe Cardona followed the men who had left, he found Lamont Cranston standing by the door of his limousine. The detective paused to speak to the globetrotter.
“Serious business, this,” remarked Cranston.
“It is,” admitted Cardona. “Maybe we’re not at the end of it.”
“How so?”
“There may be other collectors of these rare curios.”
“I hardly think so. None with such valued treasures. I am speaking, of course, of those who own — or owned — but one prize item.”
“There’s a man named Powers Jordan,” remarked Cardona, “and he has a sort of crown that’s worth as much as any of these things that have been lifted.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I called him up. Dutton gave me his name, after the first robbery. Jordan said he had sold the crown. He used to travel around with these other collectors. But he isn’t interested any more.”
“Then this means the end of it.”
“I hope so, Mr. Cranston. Good night.”
As Cardona was about to move forward to his car, which was parked ahead of the limousine, he heard Cranston’s quiet voice detaining him. The detective paused.
“Cardona,” Lamont Cranston asked quietly, “just what do you estimate as the value of these objects that have been stolen? Do you think that they average two-hundred thousand dollars each?”
“More than that,” returned Cardona, in an emphatic tone. “I’ve checked the values. Call it an average of a quarter million — and that’s putting it conservative.”
“A great deal of money,” observed Cranston. “Good night, Cardona.”
“Good night,” rejoined the detective.
Cranston entered his limousine. The car followed Cardona’s from the drive. As his car reached the broad highway to Manhattan, the solitary passenger in the limousine indulged in a thoughtful soliloquy.
“Five thefts.” The tone was the whispered hiss of The Shadow, although it came from the lips of Lamont Cranston. “One million dollars. That was Tyrell’s claim. Four thefts have been completed.”
A hand stretched out. It grasped the speaking tube to the chauffeur’s seat. The Shadow spoke — this time in the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston. Stanley inclined his head to hear his master’s words.
“Stanley,” came the unexpected question, “how much is two hundred and fifty thousand, multiplied by five? One million?”
Stanley kept his head inclined as he drove ahead. His lips were mumbling as he repeated the question and made a calculation. In the back seat, Cranston’s lips were wearing a smile as the orbs above them viewed the chauffeur’s difficulty. Stanley raised one hand to scratch the back of his head, behind his chauffeur’s cap. Then came his reply.
“It’s more than a million, sir,” he said, as he tilted his mouth toward the speaking tube. “Five times two hundred and fifty thousand dollars — it’s a million and a quarter, sir.”
“Thank you, Stanley.”
Lamont Cranston’s lips were still smiling as his hand dropped the speaking tube. His little jest with Stanley was but the expression of a thought that he had answered automatically while talking with Joe Cardona.
In his interview with Mark Tyrell, The Shadow had learned that the schemer’s goal was a million dollars. He knew that Tyrell was too crafty a man to have misstated the figure. He knew also that Tyrell was wise enough to know the exact value of the prizes which he had expected to gain.
Why five thefts when four had been sufficient? Why was another crime still on the calendar? Mark Tyrell knew the answer. So did The Shadow.
A soft laugh came from the lips of Lamont Cranston. Shuddering tones, held to a whisper, died away without reaching Stanley’s ears. That mockery was a burst of knowing mirth. It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XI
THE FIFTH CRIME
“TAP — tap — tap — tap—”
“That’s Tyrell,” asserted Pug Halfin. The gangleader was in his room at the old Morocco Hotel. With him was Slug Bracken. Pug stepped to the door and opened it.
Mark Tyrell entered. He was wearing his inconspicuous overcoat and his derby hat. To-night, however, his scarf was not in evidence. There was no need for it. Tyrell was wearing an ordinary business suit beneath his overcoat.
With the door closed behind him, Tyrell seated himself and smiled shrewdly as he studied his two companions. In Pug Halfin and Slug Bracken, he viewed a pair of ruffians as tough as any in the underworld.
“We’re on the home-stretch,” announced Tyrell. “One more job and we will be done. I think to-night will be the finish.”
“The crown?” questioned Slug.
Tyrell nodded.
“Then you’ll be ready to fence the swag,” asserted Pug. “That ain’t goin’ to be no easy job—”
“There will be no difficulty,” interposed Tyrell. “The shipment of the stolen treasures will be a simple matter. First of all, the stuff is well under cover. We three alone have visited the hiding place.”
“Foon Koo has been there,” reminded Pug.
“Of course,” declared Tyrell. “He is there now. It is his duty to guard the treasure. Foon Koo might be regarded as part of the hiding place. However, the disposal of the treasures will come later. To-night, our task is to obtain the diamond tiara owned by Powers Jordan.”
“How’re you goin’ to grab it?” questioned Pug.
“By force,” returned Tyrell. “To-night’s theft will mean murder.”
The insidious suggestion did not faze either of the ruffians who listened to Tyrell’s discourse. On the contrary, both mobleaders appeared pleased by the statement that bloodshed would be required.
“You both did good jobs last week,” complimented Tyrell. “You worked well at Gault’s, Pug. You teamed perfectly with Foon Koo. As for the job at Bexler’s—”
“It was a cinch,” interrupted Slug Bracken, with a grin.
“It was properly handled,” returned Tyrell. “That is why I know that I can depend upon both of you — and the entire crew — for this coming job at Jordan’s.”
“Let’s hear the lay, Tyrell,” suggested Pug.
“VERY well,” said the suave society man. “First of all, we are dealing with a man who is quite different from any of the other collectors whom we have robbed. Powers Jordan owns a diamond tiara worth a quarter of a million dollars, at least. Yet he has stated — to the police as well as to his friends — that the tiara is no longer in his possession.”
“He’s stallin’?” questioned Pug.
“He is,” returned Tyrell.
“Foxy bird,” put in Slug.
“During the past week,” resumed Tyrell, “I have been making the most of a friendship with Powers Jordan. He is a member of my club. Occasionally, he becomes loquacious. He admitted to me privately, some time ago, that he still has the tiara.”
“Where?” questioned Slug. “Has he got it in a safe?”
“No,” replied Tyrell, with a shrewd smile, “he has it hidden somewhere in his apartment.”
“Do you know the place?”
“I expect to find it to-night.”
“How?”
“From Jordan. I saw him night before last. He asked me to drop in to see him. I have been very subtle in my private conversation with Jordan. I told him, in light of the robberies which have been accomplished, that he should not depend upon any ordinary hiding place. He finally wagered one hundred dollars that I could not find the spot in his apartment where the tiara is kept.”
“Did you take him up?” inquired Pug.
“Certainly,” smiled Tyrell. “Furthermore, I expect to lose the bet.”
“Then you won’t find the spot,” put in Pug.
“On the contrary,” stated Tyrell, “I shall discover it very easily. When Jordan demands payment of the wager, he will have to show me the actual cache which contains the tiara. Otherwise, I can express disbelief that he has a hiding place in the apartment.”