Turning on the dome light of the rolling cab, Ed Mallan opened the envelope. A sheaf of bank notes came out in his hand. The bills spread between the private detective’s fingers. A gasp came from Mallan’s lips.
In his hand, the detective was holding twenty certificates. All were of the same denomination; and Mallan was fingering bills of this sort for the first time. Each slip of currency bore the magic figures “500.”
Lucius Zurick had paid for silence concerning himself and his associates: Guy Laverock and Harbrook Kent. So far as Ed Mallan was concerned, they could have silence forever. Ten thousand dollars!
CHAPTER XII. THEFT AFTER DEATH
LATE afternoon. Elwood Phraytag’s shuttered mansion loomed dark against a dulling sky. Cars were parked along the secluded block. Among them stood a hearse. Death services were being held for the deceased philanthropist.
The newspapers had carried an announcement of the funeral. Brief services to which friends were invited; then private interment. The final statement was significant. It meant that no mourners would follow the hearse to the Sky Line Cemetery in New Jersey.
For Elwood Phraytag left no living relatives. He was the last of the family who would be buried in the mausoleum that he had built many years before. There was a tragic story in Elwood Phraytag’s death.
Though he had possessed a fair-sized fortune, Phraytag was rated as almost penniless. His life — so the newspapers declared — had been one of giving. He had retained only enough funds to provide for his last days; the house was to be sold and the proceeds donated to the blind.
Only Worthington was to receive a legacy. That gift, in itself, was charity. For Phraytag had chosen a servant who, like himself, had no kin. Worthington would never serve another master; but he would be free from want, thanks to Phraytag’s provisions.
Though there was to be no procession, there were mourners in plenty at the old mansion. Elwood Phraytag had been a benefactor to many. They paid their tribute by coming to the philanthropist’s home to view the body.
They were of all classes, these people, and few knew any whom they saw there. Besides, the recipients of Phraytag’s charitable gifts, there were numerous persons who had been friends of the old philanthropist.
Most of the visitors came and departed before the services. There were probably three dozen persons present when the rites were said. Among them was a tall, calm-faced individual who stood in a gloomy corner of the room where Phraytag’s body lay.
Many people who came and left would have noticed this personage, had they known his name. But none were acquainted with him; for he associated chiefly with a class that did not attend the funeral. Elwood Phraytag had few wealthy acquaintances; and this mourner was Lamont Cranston, reputedly a multimillionaire.
Those who viewed the visitor’s solemn, steady features presumed that he had been a friend of Elwood Phraytag’s. In this they were wrong. The dead philanthropist had never met Lamont Cranston. Hence the millionaire’s presence might have been unexplainable, but for another factor in the case.
Actually, the quiet stranger was The Shadow. He had adopted the guise of Lamont Cranston — one which he frequently used — that he might be present when the services were ended. For The Shadow knew that mystery had enshrouded the death of Elwood Phraytag.
BY the time the services had been completed, this silent visitor had noted every face present. Most of those who had remained here were elderly men. Their countenances, solemn with grief, had given no sign of interests other than those of mourners. Yet The Shadow waited.
Pall bearers were entering. The Shadow’s eyes turned toward the corpse. Elwood Phraytag’s thin hands rested crossed upon his breast. The left lay upon the right. The third finger wore a heavy signet ring.
Lamont Cranston had noted that ornament closely when he had viewed the body. He had observed the initials “E P” upon the surface of the ring.
A few of the mourners were approaching the bier. One was an erect man who let one hand rest beside Phraytag’s body. The Shadow noted that the man’s eyes had steadied upon the ring which glimmered on Phraytag’s finger.
He saw more. The living hand that rested close to the corpse was wearing a signet ring that matched the one on Phraytag’s bony claw. The tall figure of Lamont Cranston had moved forward from the corner.
Sharp eyes glowed downward from almost beside the erect mourner. On the signet, The Shadow saw the initials “G L.”
The mourner moved away. Edging into the place that he had left was a stooped fellow whose breath came wheezily. A limp hand dropped upon the side of the coffin as this newcomer leaned forward above Phraytag’s body.
Again, a gaze noted the ring on the dead man’s hand. The Shadow, looking downward, saw its counterpart upon the stooped man’s finger. The initials were “H K.”
Others were moving away; only one man remained at the center of the bier. His face was like parchment; his crafty profile showed plainly against the lights upon the wall. The Shadow caught the glimmer of cunning eyes; he also saw the flash of a gold signet ring. As the mourner’s hand was about to draw away from the lighted area, The Shadow spied the engraved initials: “L. Z.”
All the while, Worthington had been standing solemnly in the background. The old servant noted all of the dozen-odd persons who had approached for a last glimpse of the deceased. He saw Lamont Cranston’s figure move away.
Then came the pall bearers. The coffin was closed; then raised and carried forth.
The last of the mourners followed. Worthington went to the front door and closed it, after the hearse rolled away. The servant returned into the house of gloom. His steps were slow and faltering. They paused in the rear of the hallway; then came into the room where the body had been resting.
Worthington was carrying a long rod that contained a lighted wick. It was an old-fashioned lighter; with it, the servant proceeded to light the huge chandelier that hung from the center of the room.
Phraytag’s house had never been wired with electricity. This task that Worthington was performing seemed to be a duty that the servant had made a formula.
When the illumination was complete, Worthington sighed. He looked about the room, as though trying to picture scenes of the past. His eyes were moist and dim as they became suddenly fixed upon a corner of the room.
Worthington had suddenly discovered that he was not alone. Standing in the corner was a mourner who had not been recognized; the very person whom Worthington had last seen beside the casket. The startled servant was staring at the steady features of Lamont Cranston.
“Who — who are you?” gasped Worthington. “I thought that — I thought—”
“You believed that every one had gone.” The quiet interruption came in an even tone. “You did not expect to see any one here; least of all a person whose face you did not recognize.”
“That is true, sir.”
“My name is Lamont Cranston. I remained here, Worthington, to speak with you.”
“Yes, sir. You knew my master?”
“I was one of the first to learn of his death.”
The cryptic answer satisfied Worthington. The servant took it to mean that Cranston had been a friend of Phraytag’s. Worthington nodded in an understanding fashion.
“Elwood Phraytag had many friends,” stated The Shadow. “I feel an interest in them. Your master, Worthington, was a unique man, whose life was one of accomplishment. I should like to know which of his friends were most like him.
“That, Worthington, is why I remained here in the house. You served Elwood Phraytag for many years. I believed that your opinion could be my best guide regarding his friends.”