“Newark, Stanley,” came a quiet voice at Calbot’s side.
THE chauffeur started the limousine. Calbot tried to make out the form of the man beside him. He could see nothing in the black corner of the limousine. Then came the quiet voice, again bringing reassurance.
“You are fortunate, Mr. Calbot,” were the words. “The death which you expected has been stayed.”
“Thanks to you,” blurted Calbot. “I thought that I was doomed. I can never fully thank you—”
“I do not ask your thanks. I wish you to obey. Hear my orders.”
Calbot nodded in the darkness. The voice, though quiet, was commanding.
“Men of crime have sought your death.” The Shadow’s tone was ominous. “In order that they be foiled, they must believe that they succeeded. You are leaving New York.”
“Gladly,” expressed Calbot, in a relieved tone. “But — but they did more than try to murder me. They stole—”
“The golden scroll from the Kaaba. I shall speak of it later. In the meantime, remember that you must stay away and communicate with no one. You are taking a train at Newark, tonight. Travel to the destination named upon the ticket that you receive.”
Again Calbot nodded. This stranger in the dark seemed to know everything. The recluse, however, was due for a more startling surprise.
“Your golden scroll,” declared The Shadow, “was a fraudulent treasure. The theft of it relieves you of a valueless object.”
“My scroll!” Calbot’s exclamation was a sharp cry. “Fraudulent. You mean that I — that I was swindled—”
“Yes. That is why I seek the name of the man from whom you received it.”
“Cecil Armsbury,” declared Calbot, slowly. “I cannot believe that he would have played me false. His reputation is too great. Armsbury has traveled everywhere. His collection of Egyptian antiquities was purchased by the Egyptian Museum. I–I cannot believe it of Armsbury. He — he must have been duped also.”
“Cecil Armsbury.”
The name came in a whisper from The Shadow’s hidden lips. The limousine rode on, heading for the Holland Tunnel.
“A man of reputation,” added Brisbane Calbot. “A great traveler and explorer. A fine career behind him. Armsbury! I cannot believe that he is to blame.”
There was a long pause. Brisbane Calbot, staring ahead, was trying to find an answer to this new perplexity. In one short evening, he had experienced more surprises than he had previously gained during his entire lifetime.
THE limousine came to a stop. It had turned into a side street to gain a parallel avenue. Brisbane Calbot was leaning forward. Keen eyes from the dark were studying his pale profile. Something moved in the darkness at Calbot’s side. A gloved hand grasped the knob of the door. Silently, the door opened and closed. While Calbot still stared, the limousine moved on.
“Armsbury!” Calbot still repeated the name. “The golden scroll from the Kaaba — a fake! I have been defrauded. Men have sought to murder me!”
The collector mumbled incoherent words. The limousine reached the Holland Tunnel as he still was speaking. It rolled swiftly through the tube and reached the Jersey side.
Lights from the high-speed highway. Brisbane Calbot turned, with sudden realization that he could see the man beside him. To his amazement, he saw that the limousine was empty of passengers other than himself.
Calbot could offer no explanation. He could not remember a possible occasion upon which his mysterious rescuer could have left the car. He was still bewildered when the limousine pulled up at the Market Street station in Newark.
The chauffeur alighted and opened the rear door. He handed an envelope to Calbot. The curio collector opened it in dumfounded surprise. He found a railway ticket, with Pullman berth to Washington.
“Your train leaves in ten minutes, sir,” the chauffeur of the limousine informed him.
The chauffeur went back to the car. The limousine rolled away while Brisbane Calbot was still examining the ticket. Slowly, the recluse entered the station and ascended the steps to the train platform. He knew that his only course was to follow his rescuer’s orders.
Calbot could still recall that weird form in black; the burning eyes of his rescuer; the quiet voice that had spoken in the limousine. As the headlight of an electric locomotive blazed down the track, Calbot realized that some strange brain had been at work in his behalf.
This ticket had been ready for him while he was still within the vault of his curio room. That meant that his rescuer had anticipated the visit of the men who had stolen the golden scroll and had placed him in the vault!
For a moment, Calbot experienced perplexing doubts. Then, as he stepped aboard the sleeper, he realized that one to whom he owed his life must certainly be working entirely in his aid. Brisbane Calbot noted a card in the envelope which contained the ticket. It bore the name of a Washington hotel. That would be Calbot’s residence until he received word to return to New York.
BACK at Calbot’s house, the side door was open. A patrolman in the passage at the side was staring toward the street. He turned as two men came from the house. One was Inspector Timothy Klein; the other Detective Joe Cardona.
“You were the first man to enter here?” Klein, the gray-haired inspector, put the question to the patrolman.
“Yes, sir,” returned the officer. “Came in through one of the busted windows at the front. Found the front door bolted; the side door was closed with a spring lock.”
“Looks like the trouble was all outside,” remarked Cardona. “That junk room hadn’t been touched, inspector.”
“It would take more than a bunch of gangsters to lift any of that stuff,” agreed the inspector. “That note we found in the reading room settles it anyway.”
“Yeah. This fellow Calbot who owns the house left the note for his servant, Hildebrand. I called up the sanitarium where the servant is staying. They told me he’s due back in a week — and that he has keys to this place.”
Klein nodded. He had read the note mentioned by Cardona. It announced to Hildebrand that Calbot was going away for a trip. It instructed the servant to put the place in order and to remain until his master returned. No mention had been given of Calbot’s destination.
“Just a gang fight,” decided Cardona, “but they picked a funny place to stage it. I figured for a while that they must have been trying to bust in here. Maybe they were at that; but they didn’t make it. Anyway, there’s one guy that’s out of it.”
“Who?”
“Brodie Brodan. I thought that guy was mixed up in the murder of Trappe — and Bogart. But I had my eye on him tonight. I was watching him down at the Club Madrid when I got the call to come up here.”
The two men strolled along the alley. The patrolman closed the side door to Calbot’s home. The automatic latch sprang shut. The policeman followed the inspector and the detective.
Something clicked in the darkness. The side door opened. A swish sounded as a moving form made its way through the dark house to Calbot’s reading room. A tiny flashlight glimmered on the table. It revealed the note which Cardona had read and replaced.
The Shadow had returned to make sure that his plans had succeeded. He had left that note; he plucked it from the table, now that its purpose had been served.
The Shadow had played a triple game tonight.
He had saved Brisbane Calbot from death in the vault and had sent the collector out of town where he was to remain. He had tricked the police into thinking that nothing had occurred within this house. Most important, however, The Shadow had duped the enemy.
So far as Duke Larrin and his minions were concerned, Brisbane Calbot had perished. They would believe that the curio collector’s body was still in the vault. Yet Brisbane Calbot still lived; and tonight, The Shadow had gained knowledge of the game which the crooks were playing.