“A friend who went to Mexico discovered that you were not living there. I thought, perhaps, that crime was in your blood. The friend learned that you had been in three European capitals. Through another man, I checked what was known about the famous international crook, Duke Larrin. I learned sufficient to identify him as you.”
“I quit the Duke Larrin stuff for a while.”
“Because you knew it was becoming unsafe.”
“Yes. I landed back in Mexico — my hide-out — nearly broke. That’s why I—”
“Why you came here. It was clever of you. A wise step, Martin. It has paved the way to wealth for both of us.”
“Through theft?”
“Yes. Murder, also.”
“What is our game?”
“To acquire objects,” smiled Armsbury, “that are worth nothing.”
HAVELOCK stared. Again he felt the impression that his old uncle had lost his mind. Armsbury saw the look and chuckled.
“Articles worth nothing,” repeated the old man. “That is why they must be gained. You may think that you are clever, Martin. You cannot match your uncle. I have left a trail of strange swindles in my path. Once it is covered, our way is clear to tremendous gain. Theft and murder are required.”
The old man arose with surprising agility — a further proof that his presumed illness had been a pretense.
He crossed the living room and locked the door. Striding to the far wall, he reached into the huge fireplace and pressed a hidden switch.
Martin Havelock stared as he saw the rear of the fireplace slide upward like a panel. The space revealed was of considerable size. Stooping, the old man entered. He turned and beckoned. Havelock joined him.
Armsbury pressed another switch. The floor of the fireplace descended like an elevator, into blackness.
Then came light — a dim glow that showed a small vaulted room. An iron door lay beyond. Armsbury led the way. He pressed at the side of the door. It slid away and showed a crypt beyond.
Into this larger chamber went uncle and nephew. Their footsteps awoke hollow echoes in the dim crypt.
Each wall had a door. Cecil Armsbury opened the farther one. His nephew gasped at the sight of gleaming objects that flashed even in this dull light. Golden Buddhas with glittering emerald eyes; strange scrolls of yellow metal; these were samples of the treasure that lay revealed.
“STOLEN goods,” chuckled Cecil Armsbury. “Spoils from Chinese palaces; from Hindu temples; from Persian mosques. Some are worth much because of the precious metal and jewels which they contain.
Others have value because of their rarity. The time has arrived, Martin, to turn the contents of this crypt into cash. But before we can do so, we must steal — and slay!”
“Why?”
“Because of my past!” Armsbury gripped his nephew by the arm and spoke in a cackle that was harsh within the confines of the crypt. “I have sold treasures in the past. I have gained fame as a discoverer of unknown relics. But in my dealings with men who had wealth to spend, I used cunning methods.
“I sold them fakes! The jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad” — the old man paused to raise one finger — “was the first. The golden panel from the Temple of Heaven in the Forbidden City. That was the second. The sacred scroll from Kaaba, in Mecca” — Armsbury was chuckling — “was the third. Last of all, the collection of antiquities which I sold to the Egyptian Museum.
“All are impositions. I manufactured those supposed treasures. I gained large sums through their sale. I kept my real treasures for myself. Now, however, I am faced with exposure. Should my swindles be discovered, all would be lost. My reputation would be ended.”
The old man paused in solemn fashion. Martin Havelock nodded with understanding.
“You mean,” declared the nephew, “that your first step must be the regaining of the fraudulent items that you have placed in other hands.”
“Exactly,” stated Armsbury. “More than that: the fake treasures must be destroyed and their owners eliminated. Theft and murder must come from someone other than myself. The first three items that I have named are owned by individuals. Those men must die when their treasures are taken.
“The antiquities in the museum can be regained last of all. No one need die when they are stolen; but there, Martin, we can play a double game. With the fake items, we can also steal real treasure — objects of fabulous wealth — which are in the Egyptian Museum along with the fake antiquities. The trail will be ended. The road to millions will be ours!”
Martin Havelock was sober. His uncle watched him narrowly, as though divining the young man’s thoughts. A smile flickered on Cecil Armsbury’s face even before the nephew spoke.
“Suspicion,” declared Havelock, “is to be kept from you. Yet I — as your nephew—”
“Cannot commit the crimes,” interposed Armsbury, with a cunning grin. “But as Duke Larrin, the international crook, you have every opportunity. Your task will be to form a band of clever workers. This crypt will be your headquarters. Here, as the leader, you can give your orders and send the henchmen forth upon their work!”
STRIDING across the crypt, Cecil Armsbury opened a door at the side. He pointed to a darkened corridor which formed a long tunnel leading from the crypt.
“This will be the mode of entrance,” declared the old man. “The shaft to my living room will remain unknown to your band. I shall not appear. You will live quietly in my home, as my nephew, Martin Havelock.
“But as Duke Larrin, crook supreme, it will be your part to launch crime so baffling that no one in all New York can ever suspect its source!”
Chuckling, Cecil Armsbury faced his nephew in the crypt. A leering smile appeared upon Martin Havelock’s lips. Uncle and nephew — both were crooks of a kind. They saw alike. The time had come to act.
Amazing, baffling crime was in the making; its font was to be this hidden crypt where only men of evil could assemble. Cecil Armsbury had found the man he needed. Lives were at stake and the schemes of these potential murderers were buried as deeply as the crypt itself!
CHAPTER III. THE MEETING
DAYS had passed since Cecil Armsbury and his nephew had formed their plot of crime. New night had come to Manhattan. The metropolis was again aglow.
There was one spot, however, that no illumination reached. This was a room in which pitch-darkness reigned, irrespective of day or night. Somber silence marked the strange abode, until a slight swishing sounded faintly through the gloom.
Something clicked. The rays of a bluish light appeared in the corner of the room. The flickering glare was focused upon the surface of a polished table. Beneath that glow appeared two long white hands. From a finger of the left sparkled a brilliant gem, that displayed a range of mystic, ever-changing hues.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. Those hands were his. The flashing gem — a priceless girasol — was the emblem of this master being who balked all men of crime. An unseen visitant to a lost abode, The Shadow was studying reports that concerned the underworld.
All crookdom knew of the existence of The Shadow. In the badlands, the very name of this weird creature was pronounced with awe. Time and again, the mysterious figure of The Shadow had arrived to foil the plans of master criminals.
A being clad in black — a fighter whose mighty automatics blazed a trail of death to skulking fiends — such was The Shadow. Those who recognized his existence knew that The Shadow held the balance between crime and order. When evil threatened to gain power over right, it was The Shadow who could turn the tide.
Long white hands were opening envelopes. Report sheets and clippings fluttered to the table. These were from The Shadow’s agents — faithful workers who aided their master in keeping tabs on the pulse beats of crime.