“That no one wants?”
“Yes.” Fingers smiled. “I buy fake curios, Mr. Calbot.”
The collector seemed puzzled. Fingers grinned as he went on with his explanation.
“Lots of collectors,” he said, “get stuck with phony curios. They usually buy them cheap — that’s why they get stung. So I give them their money for them and pass the fake curios on to other people.”
An indignant exclamation came from Brisbane Calbot’s lips.
“This is outrageous, Mr. Basib!” asserted the collector. “A dishonest practice!”
“Just a way out,” returned Fingers. “I find that most curio collectors are glad to find it — if they learn that they own fakes.”
“I should never take such a step,” protested Calbot. “If ever I have been swindled, the loss is my own. I trust people, Mr. Basib. I believe in honesty.”
“So do I.” Fingers suddenly changed tactics. “It’s not my fault that I had to take up this game. The collectors are the ones to blame. I used to be an expert at detecting forged curios. What did I get for it?
“Nothing. People called me in to examine articles they thought had value. I told them when I found fakes. That upset them because they saw financial loss. They didn’t like to pay me the fee that I required. They all had one question — just one question, Mr. Calbot.”
“What was that?”
“If I could help them to get rid of their fakes, passing the junk off as genuine.”
“And you complied?”
“I had to do it.” Fingers took on a mournful look. “It was the only way, Mr. Calbot. Think of it — me — the man who can spot a fake quicker than anybody else in the country — forced to go into a racket.”
“I am sorry,” stated Calbot, sympathetically. “Very sorry, Mr. Basib. I appreciate the fact that you feel remorse. I should like to aid you in a return to honesty. Perhaps” — the collector was nodding thoughtfully — “you would be willing to give an impartial study to my collection of curios. I should value your expert opinion. I can assure you, also, that I shall be willing to pay you a generous fee.
“But I shall not dispose of any spurious items in my collection. Instead, I shall spare no effort to trace the men who swindled me — should you discover that some of my curios are not genuine.”
“I’d like to see your collection,” asserted Fingers, in an eager tone. “I’d like to get a first look at it so that I could list all doubtful articles. Then I could return to give a more exact inspection.”
“Very well, Mr. Basib. Come this way.”
BRISBANE CALBOT arose and conducted his visitor toward the door that led to the stairs below.
Fingers Keefel, as he followed, gave a warning cough, as he threw a glance toward the front of the house. He heard a slight creaking sound just beyond a turn in the hall. He grinned, knowing that it must be Croaker Mannick.
Brisbane Calbot opened the door and turned on a light at the top of the stairs. With Fingers Keefel at his heels, he led the way to the cellar and unlocked the door of the curio room. The two men stepped into the room. Calbot turned on the light and waved his hand.
“Here it is,” he said.
“A wonderful collection!” exclaimed Fingers. “Wonderful. Many interesting items.”
He strolled about the room, noting one object after another and finally stopped to face Calbot.
“I suppose,” said Fingers, in an indifferent tone, “that you have other items which you consider to be of more value than these?”
“Yes,” admitted Calbot. “But—”
“Where are they?”
“I keep them in a special place.”
“In that vault?”
Calbot looked nervously at Fingers; then his eyes went toward the vault. Fingers, near the door of the curio room, gave a noiseless snap to his fingers — a sign which could be seen by anyone in the cellar.
Then, stepping past Calbot, he approached the door of the vault. He placed his hand upon a knob.
“That vault stays locked!” exclaimed Calbot, excitedly. “I do not care to open it, Mr. Basib.”
“What is the combination?” quizzed Fingers.
“What — what!” blurted Calbot. “You dare to seek to open it? Leave my house at once. At once, I say!”
“After you,” smirked Fingers, waving his hand toward the door.
Brisbane Calbot turned in bewilderment. A gasp came from his lips as he sighted the reason for his visitor’s grin.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, square-jawed man who gripped a .38. The revolver was covering Brisbane Calbot. The collector’s arms came up; he backed away.
“Good work, Croaker,” laughed Fingers, as he recognized the tough, though pasty, face of the killer whom he had summoned. “Keep this bimbo covered while I open the box.”
With cool indifference, Fingers turned and began his work upon the knob. He laughed sourly as he proceeded, talking to Brisbane Calbot as he went along.
“It would be easier,” he remarked, “if you gave me the combination. What’s that? No answer? How would a bullet from my friend’s gun suit you?”
Brisbane Calbot remained silent. Fingers Keefel muttered, another laugh.
“You’d rather die, I’ll bet,” he declared. “Well, maybe you will — maybe you will. And if you’re dead, you can’t tell us. We don’t like to stay around long after a guy takes the bump. So we’ll let you keep your funny mug shut. Keep watching, old-timer, and see how a safecracker works.”
BRISBANE CALBOT stared. His lips were pursed. As Fingers Keefel had suggested, the outraged collector was ready to face death without speaking. He had a sort of nervous confidence in the door of his safe. As Fingers growled at missed combinations, Calbot felt hysterical elation.
Fingers began to talk. It was his way of working. His growled remarks reached the door of the curio room and brought a smile to the ugly lips of Croaker Mannick.
“The last job,” was the comment that Fingers made. “I fixed it for you and you walked in, Croaker. This is a better lay for you than the one out on Long Island. Say — I helped you out when I yanked off that light, didn’t I?
“You’re cool with the gun, Croaker. The way you beat old Fatty Bogart to the shot was neat. You had to scram plenty fast. Brodie’s mob ran into trouble that you got out of. Didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” Croaker’s growled affirmative indicated an unpleasant recollection.
“Don’t get nervous, Croaker,” laughed Fingers. “Say — if I could handle a gat like you can, nothing would make me nervous — not even The Shadow.”
“Yeah?” Croaker’s voice showed actual nervousness. “Well, when I scrammed, there was some guy firing in the dark — and I didn’t like it.”
Fingers poised his hand. His smile faded. A grim look appeared upon his face. He half-turned his head to look toward Croaker. The gleaming .38 was trained steadily upon Brisbane Calbot; but Fingers fancied that he saw a nervous expression on Croaker’s face.
“This is the last job, Croaker,” assured Fingers. “I don’t blame you for wanting to get it over with — if you’ve got a hunch that The Shadow might mix in. Well — we’ll scram when we’re through — and there’s nothing more to worry about.
“Not even The Shadow can get wise to the next stunt that Duke Larrin’s going to pull. He’ll get what he’s after — and it won’t be phony junk — so he said. We’re not in it — and neither is Brodie. Even The Shadow won’t have a chance to get to that crypt of Duke Larrin’s.”
With these words, Fingers bent back to the vault. His hands resumed their task. The nervousness which Fingers had gained after his survey of Croaker s face seemed to spur him rather than deter him.
Something clicked. The door of the vault moved open. It had taken Fingers twenty-five minutes; he thought that he had done a creditable job. He did not know that The Shadow had been here before him, to do the work in exactly three minutes!