“I understand,” interposed Clyde. “All I ask is that you keep me posted about the casket. It will be a fine story when you find it.”
“Keep in touch with me, Burke. You will be the only reporter to know of this matter.”
Clyde nodded his thanks. A cab was arriving; he boarded it with Clavelock and Carning. At Times Square, the reporter dropped off. Instead of heading for the Classic office, he made for his own lodgings.
For Clyde Burke had work to do to-night — a long report to prepare for The Shadow. To-morrow, he would have some early business looking through old files at the Classic.
IT was nine o’clock the next morning when Rick Parrin looked up from his desk to greet a visitor. The man who had entered the private office was Carning. Rick motioned for the fellow to close the door; that done, he motioned Carning to the seat by the window.
Carning handed Rick a sheaf of typewritten papers. The fake sales manager began to read them in detail, chewing at the end of a cigar that he was smoking. It was a full fifteen minutes before he finished his perusal. Then he made comment.
“Looks like you’ve bagged something, Carning!” chuckled Rick. “This will suit The Creeper great. I’ve got a hunch that he was hoping for something like this. With that estate tied up because of old Bigelow Doyd’s foolishness, The Creeper will have a chance to beat the heirs to the swag.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Carning. “But the trouble will be finding that bloke Myram. How’s The Creeper going to do it, Rick?”
“He’ll manage. Give him time. Just one guy to look for; it won’t take long.”
“What about this bird Montague Rayne?”
Rick snorted.
“Eighty years plus,” he remarked. “That’s how old the guy would be if he’s still alive. Say, that old lady Mehitabel probably thinks they’re still building the Brooklyn Bridge. She and Uncle Egbert.”
“He’s not such an old fossil, Rick. Kind of a sappy bird, though. Looked sort of sick last night. But listen, Rick, there’s one thing bothering me; I put it in my notes — didn’t you see it?”
“What was that?”
“About those lists. There were five of them to begin with. But only four at the finish. Clavelock forgot about it; but I didn’t. Somebody snagged one of them.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. It might have been anybody, except this young fellow Shiloh. He was with the girl, Theresa, and he wouldn’t have had a chance. Of course, old Mehitabel is out — and Egbert, too, I guess, because he looked half asleep.”
“Then that leaves only Lundig?”
“Lundig and the servant — the flunky they called Wilfred. But he wasn’t around when Clavelock passed out the lists. Lundig was looking at one of them; he could have smouched it.”
“A wise guy, maybe. With his talk about detectives. Yeah, Carning, I guess Lundig snatched that list. Unless the reporter took it.”
Carning shook his head slowly.
“I don’t think Burke would have taken the chance,” he decided. “He didn’t want to run any risk of getting in bad with Clavelock. Say — I’d have yanked one of those lists myself, if I hadn’t been worried about Clavelock wising up.”
“The Creeper could use one of the lists,” mused Rick. “Well, he’ll get one when he wants it. Out of Clavelock’s safe.”
“It looks like a tough box to crack, that safe. I took a good look at it, Rick. When I was typing those shorthand notes—”
“Don’t worry. When The Creeper has a job, he gets the right guy to do it. It’s just as well the lists are where they are. How long would it take to copy one?”
“An hour, maybe, in longhand. Less on a typewriter.”
“Well, that means one can be taken out and put back afterward. Without Clavelock ever getting wise. All right, Carning — time for you to scram. I don’t spend too long in my sales conferences.”
Rick chuckled as he made the statement. Carning arose while Rick tucked the typewritten sheets into a desk drawer. The two walked out through the outer office; they were chatting about sales promotion when they passed the typists who were working there.
LESS than an hour after Carning’s visit to Rick Parrin, an event occurred elsewhere in Manhattan. A click sounded in a darkened room. A blue light glimmered upon a polished table. White hands came beneath a shaded glow. The Shadow was in his sanctum, the secluded room that he kept as his own headquarters.
A sheaf of papers came from an envelope. The Shadow began to read Clyde Burke’s report. Detail for detail, it corresponded with that which Carning had delivered to Rick Parrin. It told of the vanished ebony casket; it added the factor of the missing list.
Clyde, in his speculation on who might have the list, eliminated Carning, just as Carning had eliminated Clyde. The reporter had taken Carning for a genuine secretary who had come with Tobias Clavelock; and his added point was that Carning had been the one to mention that a list was missing.
Along with Clyde’s report was a photograph which the reporter had found in the newspaper “morgue” at the Classic. It was a picture of Montague Rayne, taken at the time of the consul’s wedding, some forty years ago. The photograph had come from London; with it, Clyde had gleaned brief facts regarding the career of Montague Rayne. Nothing had been heard of Rayne during the past ten years. He had come back from India; reentered the consular service, then retired. His last residence had been a town in Spain.
The Shadow studied the photograph of the high-nosed, long-lipped face; then placed it aside. He began to make notations on a sheet of paper — his written comments concerned the missing butler, Myram.
Finally, The Shadow inked coded notes that he sealed in envelopes: instructions to be forwarded to various agents, Clyde Burke included.
Envelopes sealed, The Shadow delivered a whispered laugh of prophecy. His hand clicked off the light.
The Shadow, not yet knowing of The Creeper’s entry into the game, had followed the course of picking Myram as the first man to find. Similarly, The Creeper, ignorant of The Shadow’s quest, was to learn facts by calling Rick Parrin; and those facts would start The Creeper on the same trail.
While the law was being informed of Myram’s petty thievery, these powerful antagonists would both be moving independently. Their quarry would be a petty thief, Myram, who had unquestionably stolen the ebony casket without realizing its true value.
But where The Creeper would employ many workers in the hunt, The Shadow would use but few.
Despite that fact, The Shadow would hold the advantage. His laugh had betokened that important point.
For The Shadow had analyzed the mental caliber of the sneak-thief Myram, who had posed as an honest servant.
Already The Shadow had devised a plan. He was confident that his method; his instructions to his agents, would enable him to trace the missing Myram before this day had ended.
CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW’S TRAIL
AT half-past four that afternoon, a young man entered an old office building on Forty-ninth Street. He noted the names on the index boards and checked one that bore the legend: “Triborough Employment Agency.”
That done, the visitor ascended by elevator to the fourth floor; he found Room 408, office of the employment agency, and entered.
A man swiveled from his desk to greet the newcomer. The visitor nodded, introduced himself as Mr. Vincent and sat down at the side of the desk. With a quiet smile, he stated his purpose.
“I am looking for a butler named Myram,” he stated. “He applied for a position with me; but I did not require his services at the time. Afterward, he wrote me, stating that he was registered with this agency—”
The man at the desk nodded. This was not an unusual request. He opened the drawer of a filing cabinet and looked through the letter “M.” He gave his head a negative shake.