“Not ready yet, Vincent,” stated Tyrell. “Where are you? I see… At the Metrolite… Good. Suppose you stay there… Yes, I may have some word within the hour… Yes, I’ll call you from here, and you can come over to see me… Yes, it looks like a good opportunity.”
Handing up the receiver, Tyrell summoned Wellington. As the servant aided him with hat and coat, Tyrell issued a non-committal command.
“The taxi trick to-night,” he said. “Get ready, Wellington. After you come back here, tell any one that calls up that I’ll be back later. Get any messages.”
“Very well, sir.”
TWENTY minutes later, Mark Tyrell was riding northward in a cab. It was the third vehicle that he had taken since his departure from the Esplanade. The taxi stunt had shown that no one was on his trail; Tyrell, however, had switched cabs later on as an additional precaution.
The cab reached its destination — a dilapidated block on the upper East Side. Tyrell paid the driver; he strolled along past various houses. He came to an old building that had a passage beside it. Tyrell headed into the darkened walk.
He found a door and gripped the knob. Pressing firmly, Tyrell unscrewed the knob from the handle. His thumb found a button where the knob had been. Tyrell gave four quick presses; then screwed the knob back in place.
When Tyrell twisted the knob lightly, the door opened.
Ascending a short flight of steps, Tyrell groped his way through the darkened first floor; then took a stairway upward. Boards creaked beneath his feet — the house was an old one — but Tyrell kept on through the darkness. He had followed a twisting course on the first floor; the second story was like a labyrinth. Blocking walls and doorways forced Tyrell to thread his path through various rooms until he found a stairway to the third floor.
At the top of this flight, he again performed maneuvers in the darkness until a final barricade stopped further passage. This door opened as Tyrell tapped. The visitor stepped into a dimly lighted anteroom that had no windows. There was a door, however, in the opposite wall.
The man who had opened the door was the dwarfish Chinaman, Foon Koo. The room had two other occupants: Slug Bracken and Pug Halfin. Tyrell’s mobleaders were seated in broken chairs. They growled a greeting as the smooth crook entered.
“Hello,” greeted Tyrell, in a suave tone. “I guess you chaps are wondering when I intend to get busy. Well, I’ll answer that to begin with. To-night.”
“Jordan’s?” questioned Slug.
“No,” returned Tyrell. “Jordan’s is out.”
“Are we going to fence the swag, then?” inquired Pug.
“No,” answered Tyrell. “Open the inner door, Foon Koo.”
The Chinaman obeyed. He clicked a light switch. Tyrell motioned to the gangleaders. He followed Foon Koo into another room, larger than the one they were leaving. The others came along at Tyrell’s heels.
The light showed an array of objects. A folded tapestry, a pair of metal-paneled screens, a green-jeweled Buddha and an inlaid throne — these were the supposed treasures that the following mobleaders viewed.
“The swag,” remarked Tyrell. “How much do you think it’s worth?”
“Plenty,” stated Pug Halfin.
“If you know how to fence it,” added Slug Bracken.
“It looks mighty good,” observed Tyrell. “Yes, mighty good for what it is — a load of junk.”
“Junk?” questioned Prig.
“That’s right,” asserted Tyrell. “An imitation tapestry, a pair of brass screens, a gold plated statue with green glass instead of emeralds — and last of all, a fake throne built by some cabinetmaker.”
“You mean this stuff is phony?”
“Yes. Every bit of it. That’s why I called the game off.”
“But it’s the stuff we kited—”
“I know it. But somebody took the real treasures ahead of us.”
“Who?” The question came simultaneously from both mobleaders.
“The Shadow,” answered Tyrell, quietly.
THE statement brought stares from the two mobleaders. Slug Bracken was totally disconcerted. He had thought that Tyrell’s schemes were beyond The Shadow’s range of action. To Pug Halfin, however, the news of The Shadow’s success against crime brought up potent recollections.
Pug remembered that first night at the Paragon Hotel. Apprehensions that had gripped him then came back with sudden force. Pug had been present when The Shadow had outwitted Tyrell. He feared The Shadow because of his own experience.
“We’re beginning over again,” announced Tyrell, in his most convincing tone. “We can forget this junk. After all, the real loss is mine. I have one job in mind — set for to-night — that will equalize our failures.”
“But if The Shadow’s on your trail,” protested Pug, “you’re goin’ to hit more trouble. If he knows—”
“The Shadow knows nothing about my present plans.”
“But The Shadow is smart. Don’t forget that he—”
“I forget nothing, Pug. I hope that your memory is as good as mine; I also hope that you will be wise enough to talk as little as I do.”
Pug was silent.
“For one thing,” reminded Tyrell, “remember that I prefer a .38 to a .45.”
This thrust hit home. It made Pug remember his own blunder at the Paragon. Slug Bracken and Foon Koo, however, did not catch the remark. Slug had stepped forward to examine the false treasures. The Chinaman, still acting as guardian, had moved along with him. Tyrell advanced to join them. Pug Halfin followed.
“Forget this stuff,” ordered the schemer, tapping his knuckles against a panel of the brass screen. “I’m playing a close game on account of The Shadow. I’m going to engineer a robbery to-night that will have all New York talking. Did you ever hear of Westbury Grolier?”
“The bird that owns all them Texas oil wells?” questioned Pug. “Sure. Who ain’t heard of him?”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Yeah. In a big joint over on Madison Avenue. The place looks like a jail.”
“It resembles a huge mausoleum,” corrected Tyrell. “Particularly the side wing, which has no windows at all.
“That’s the private museum in which Grolier keeps his rare art treasures; it contains a collection of jeweled relics that is worth a million dollars for the gems alone.”
“But how’s anybody goin’ to crack the joint?”
“I am informed that there is one vulnerable point to the relic room, namely, the roof. It has a barred skylight that could be opened. After that — a twenty foot drop to the floor.”
“Who’s going to make that?”
“Foon Koo.”
Pug Halfin had been questioning Tyrell. It was Slug Bracken’s turn to interpose.
“Say!” exclaimed Slug. “That’s a sure bet. Foon Koo could get to that roof, easy. If any guy can wiggle in past that skylight, he’s the one.”
“But after he’s in,” inserted Pug, “how’s he goin’ to get out with the swag?”
“By letting us in,” declared Tyrell. “There is a suitable entrance at the rear of Grolier’s home. We shall have the entire crew ready. It will mean a fight; but it will be worth it.”
“Only one trouble with the crew,” objected Slug. “That outfit hanging around on Madison Avenue — it won’t look so good.”
“I have allowed for that,” stated Tyrell. “You will be posted in cars close by. Vincent and I shall be on the street, strolling along in evening clothes. When we receive Foon Koo’s signal, we shall make our entry. Unless we return, it will be your cue to follow.”
“That’ll work,” approved Slug.
“Foon Koo will hasten away before the robbery,” added Tyrell. “He will come back here. Have the men equipped with bags. Stow the relics in the touring car. You two will come here; and deliver the goods to Foon Koo.”