“Got it all?” questioned Larrin, after the men had finished their reading by the dim light of the crypt.
Nods were the replies. Duke Larrin gathered in the lists. He tore them into fragments and dropped the pieces in a small antique urn that rested on the floor. He applied a match. The flame of the burning paper showed the harsh scowl on his face.
“You are the three whom I have chosen,” declared Larrin, “because you accepted my indefinite terms. There were others whom I considered. They were rejected when they wanted to know more before the secret meeting. I told them — as I told you — that I could consider no conditions.
“Each of you agreed to follow my instructions. That is why I gave each of you a key that would enable you to reach this crypt. It is known, perhaps, that Duke Larrin is in New York; but with this crypt as my headquarters no one can find me. I have planned my crimes so that all investigators will be baffled.”
Shrewdly, Duke Larrin eyed his trio of subordinates. He noticed sober glances on their faces. Duke Larrin smiled.
“I said all investigators,” he repeated. “I know what you are thinking. You are wondering if I have included one of whom we all have heard — The Shadow.
“Yes. The Shadow is included. Perhaps you think that I underestimate his power. You are wrong. I have heard of The Shadow in cities other than New York. He has been in Paris, London, Berlin, Moscow, Madrid — yes, and in Rome. He has struck at crime in all those capitals; and he has vanished as quickly as he has arrived.
“New York, they say, is where The Shadow makes his headquarters. The chances are that he is in this city at present.” Duke paused; then smiled as he noted anxious looks on the faces of his companions.
“Let The Shadow be here. He can never fathom the secret of this buried crypt. Each of you has dealt in crime. None of you have met The Shadow.
“Our plans are perfect. The police will cut no figure. While The Shadow is on the trail of one job, the next will be under way. Three in swift succession; then the fourth, in which none of you will be actively concerned.
“The Shadow will be thwarted. In all his fighting against crime, he has never crossed Duke Larrin’s path. Even though he may know that I am in New York, he will never find me nor my crypt.”
The voice of Cecil Armsbury’s nephew rang with confidence. It brought nods from the men whom he had chosen as his aids.
Crossing the crypt, Duke Larrin opened the door to the long passage. One by one, the chosen crooks left, each shaking hands with his chief. When the last of the three had gone, Duke closed the barrier.
The leering look faded from the shrewd crook’s lips. Duke Larrin’s face assumed the quiet manner which characterized Martin Havelock.
Crime had been launched from the crypt. Martin Havelock — otherwise Duke Larrin — had no qualms. He was sure that even The Shadow would fail to thwart his schemes.
Turning, the young man opened the barrier that led to the secret elevator in Cecil Armsbury’s fireplace.
He entered the lift and rode upward through darkness until he reached the light of Armsbury’s living room.
As he stepped from the fireplace, Martin Havelock heard his uncle’s chuckle. With shrewd eyes, old Cecil Armsbury had spied his nephew’s face. That one glance told the old man that the meeting had served its intended purpose.
Men of evil had sallied from the crime crypt. When they met again, successful deeds of lawlessness would lie behind them.
CHAPTER IV. CRIME BREAKS
“A GENTLEMAN to see you, sir.”
Perry Trappe looked up as he heard the servant’s words. There was a puzzled expression on his face.
Perry Trappe was a man who seldom received visitors. Here, in the living room of his secluded apartment, he was wont to spend his time alone.
“Who is it?” he questioned.
“Here is his card, sir,” replied the servant.
Trappe took the card. It bore an odd name. The inscription beneath was the portion that awakened his interest:
DARWIN BASIB
CURIO DEALER
“Where is the man?” questioned Trappe. “In the anteroom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show him in. I shall talk with him.”
The servant departed and returned shortly afterward, followed by the visitor. Perry Trappe waved the arrival to a chair. The servant left as the two men were studying one another.
Perry Trappe had expected a human oddity, for he was familiar with curio dealers, especially those who had foreign names. Darwin Basib, however, was not at all the type that he had anticipated. The man was tall, smooth of features and languorous in expression. His dark hair was glistening in slickness.
The man who had introduced himself as Darwin Basib, curio dealer, was none other than Fingers Keefel.
The false curio dealer was studying Perry Trappe. Fingers had expected to find an elderly man, for he knew that Trappe was a collector who lived alone. Instead, he noted that Trappe was of middle age and a brusque, businesslike fellow. Stocky, full-faced and of somewhat challenging eye, Trappe looked like a test for the subtle strategy of Fingers Keefel.
“A curio dealer, eh?” questioned Trappe. “What have you to offer?”
“I am not selling curios,” responded Fingers, in an indifferent tone. “I am buying them.”
“None of mine are for sale,” snapped Trappe. “What I collect, I keep.”
“I understand that you are wealthy,” declared Fingers. “That is why I have come to see you. Most of my purchases are made from wealthy men. I have done some rather odd buying, Mr. Trappe.”
“Of what sort?”
“Of all sorts. Always at the same price which the purchasers originally paid — and my offers have been accepted very quickly.”
Perry Trappe appeared puzzled. This smooth-speaking individual had him guessing. He noted a shrewd look in his visitor’s eye. The explanation followed.
“The curios that I buy,” declared Fingers Keefel, in a cautious tone, “are the ones which have been unloaded on their present owners. In other words, Mr. Trappe, I show people a way out — after they have been swindled.”
“You mean” — Trappe’s voice was incredulous — “that you pay money for stuff that is worth nothing?”
“Exactly,” said Fingers, with a smile.
PERRY TRAPPE was on his feet. With arms akimbo, he was studying his visitor, wondering if the man could possess his proper senses. Leaning back in his chair, Fingers Keefel laughed.
“Here is my system, Mr. Trappe,” he explained. “Suppose a swindler should try to sell you a fake curio. Suppose he found you biting. What would be his natural action?”
“To meet my price,” returned Trappe, promptly.
“That’s right,” declared Fingers. “He would let you have a thousand dollar item for less than five hundred. Why? Because he would be selling something without being able to guarantee its genuineness.
“Suppose that you learn your curio is a fake. You would be tickled to sell it to me for five hundred dollars and give me a certificate that I had made the purchase. Am I correct?”
“Certainly,” agreed Trappe.
“All right,” resumed Fingers. “I take the curio and the certificate. I go to another collector. I ask the full price of one thousand dollars. I have what appears to be a guarantee of its genuineness — the proof that I bought it from you, a recognized collector. You get rid of a fake without a loss; I make the profit that I want.”
Perry Trappe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He saw the game. It was crooked; yet attractive. Fingers Keefel smiled as he saw the trend of the collector’s mind.
“There’s no comeback,” remarked the fake curio dealer. “My sales appear so bona fide that they are never questioned. You cannot be held responsible after the item has left your hands.”