The far wall, however, showed a door that fitted tightly. It was the barrier to a vault. The Shadow approached it and began to work. The vault was a formidable obstacle. The black glove came from The Shadow’s left hand. The girasol glimmered while long, sensitive fingers tried the knobs.
One minute passed; two — three — The Shadow’s skill was rewarded. The door of the vault came open.
Glittering metal sent back flashes as The Shadow gazed. Within the large vault stood two guardian statues. One was as black as ebony; the other statue was as white as ivory.
Heavily bedecked with metal, these rare idols were safe without their vault. A whispered laugh told The Shadow’s thought. Three men could not carry one of these heavy pagan gods. Yet Brisbane Calbot had placed them in the vault, probably because of their tremendous value.
On the floor between the idols — set as though it belonged to the statues and was in their care — a glittering object rested upon a low pedestal. It was a golden scroll, inscribed with curious characters in Arabic.
Each line was illuminated with sparkling gems.
Stooping, The Shadow formed a shroud which blocked off the light that shone upon this treasure. His tiny flashlight glimmered. It showed the uppermost line of the scroll. It moved along from word to word while keen eyes followed.
The Shadow was reading the Arabic inscription as easily as if it had been English. He was deciphering it word by word, perusing its mystic message. The flashlight’s glimmer continued until it had reached the final statement of the inscription.
FROM hidden lips came a whispered laugh that sounded like hollow mockery within the opened vault.
The legend purported that this was the sacred scroll from the Kaaba in Mecca, that cube-shaped building that stands within the holy place called the Haram, and which houses the Black Stone venerated by all Mohammedans.
A sacred scroll from the Kaaba! That was the reason for The Shadow’s sardonic mirth. The theft of such a scroll would be as difficult as the purloining of the Black Stone itself. Had this scroll ever rested within the Kaaba, its disappearance would have stirred tumult through all Islam!
The Shadow knew that Brisbane Calbot’s treasure was a fake. Someone had duped the old collector.
This was not all that The Shadow divined. He knew also that this spurious scroll could be the only object which men of crime might be seeking at Brisbane Calbot’s.
Crooks were coming to take false treasure. Paste jewels on plated gold; that was all that they could gain.
Yet this, to The Shadow, was more important than the discovery of an object of real value.
His keen mind was tracing backward. Criminals intended to take a false treasure from a man who had been swindled when he obtained it. How had the crooks learned of this hidden scroll? Who had foisted it upon Brisbane Calbot?
The Shadow was connecting the approaching robbery with the two that had gone before. The police had advanced the theory that the robbery at Trappe’s and the invasion at Bogart’s had resulted in the theft of unknown wealth on each occasion. The Shadow, himself, had glimpsed a golden panel in the arms of Fingers Keefel, when the crook had escaped from Tyler Bogart’s.
That was all The Shadow needed. He knew the truth. The crooks were at work to reclaim fake curios; to cover up the traces of some swindler who had operated in the past. Fingers Keefel would be here tonight. The Shadow could frustrate him. But would the saving of this valueless scroll be an accomplishment of import?
Again, The Shadow laughed. His tall form rose. It stood like a gigantic shroud. The black glove slid over the left hand. The girasol was hidden. The Shadow closed the door of Brisbane Calbot’s vault.
Stalking through the curio room, The Shadow traversed the way that he had come. He locked the door behind him. He ascended the stairs, unlocked the door at the top and relocked it from the passage. He moved beyond the open doorway of the room where Brisbane Calbot was poring over an antique volume. The Shadow merged with darkness.
Minutes passed. The hour of ten was approaching. The Shadow, however, expected action before that hour. As he waited in the silence of a darkened room, he knew that crime would soon be under way.
The faint whisper of a laugh sounded in suppressed tones. Strange crime would come to a head tonight; and The Shadow was ready to play a part that he had chosen!
CHAPTER XII. THE STOLEN SCROLL
A CLOCK chimed in a room of Brisbane Calbot’s home. It marked the third quarter. Fifteen minutes before ten. Hardly had the chiming ended before a bell tinkled to announce a visitor.
Brisbane Calbot heard the bell. The recluse arose from his reading and reluctantly placed his book aside.
He walked slowly through the darkened hallway until he reached the front, where he pressed a light switch. He pushed back the bolt of the front door; then turned the lock. He peered cautiously through the crack as he opened the door.
A man was standing on the door step. He turned as Calbot’s white face appeared. Brisbane saw a smile flash in the darkness. He put a query.
“You are Mr. Basib?”
“Yes,” came the reply. “Darwin Basib, the curio dealer who made the appointment for tonight.”
“Come in.”
Fingers Keefel stepped into the light. Brisbane Calbot moved beyond him and closed the large front door. With shrewd gaze, Fingers watched the man’s action. A gloating smile appeared upon the lips of the visitor.
A pressed bolt — the turning of a lock below. These were easy to counteract from within the house. As Calbot moved back from the door, Fingers, still standing in the vestibule, removed his hat and coat. He spied a rack just inside the inner door; but he did not move in that direction.
Instead, he spoke to Calbot as he showed his host the hat and coat.
“Can I hang these somewhere?” he questioned. “Is there a rack—”
He looked about the vestibule as he spoke. Calbot took the hat and coat.
“Right this way, Mr. Basib,” he said.
“The rack is inside — in the hallway. Here—”
In indication, Calbot moved into the hall. Raising hat and coat, he hung them on the rack. Fingers Keefel foresaw the action. Standing by the outer door, he turned and with deft movement drew the bolt while his other hand twisted the key of the lock. Then, with a quick step, he turned toward the hall. He was at the inner door as Calbot turned.
“This way, Mr. Basib,” said the collector, not suspecting for an instant that his visitor had released the fastenings of the front door. “I like to talk with curio dealers. Collecting is my hobby—”
Fingers Keefel was experiencing uneasiness. Despite the ease of the trickery which he had used at the front door, he had a suspicion that eyes were watching him. Fingers had opened the way for Croaker Mannick. Could Brisbane Calbot have seen him do it?
AS they entered Calbot’s reading room, Fingers decided that he must have been mistaken. Calbot’s face was friendly and showed no sign of distrust. The collector offered his visitor a cigar. Fingers sat down and smiled.
“You told me” — Calbot’s tone denoted anticipation — “that you had something most unusual to tell me about curios. I assumed that you might be desirous of selling me some for my collection; but you informed me that such was not the case—”
“You heard me right,” interposed Fingers. “I don’t sell curios, Mr. Calbot. I buy them.”
“But I am not interested in selling any of my curios—”
“You might be,” interrupted the false dealer, “when you have heard my terms. There is a particular type of curio that I buy, Mr. Calbot.”
“Ah!”
“A type of curio that no one wants.”