Harry was positive that Chanbury was one person who would later prove useful to The Shadow.
CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD WEEK
A FORTNIGHT had passed and neither the law nor The Shadow's agents had gained a trail to Shark Meglo's present hide-out. The killer was back in his home field. Keeping out of sight was still Shark's best specialty.
Harry Vincent had been an occasional caller at Chanbury's Long Island home; and so had Clyde Burke.
The reporter had been introduced there by Cardona. Both Joe Cardona and Jim Tyrune had visited the wealthy art collector, in hopes that he might have some good ideas. Chanbury's hunch regarding Harry's predicament had impressed the sleuths.
Chanbury, however, had confessed himself at a complete loss. He was not a crime investigator. He felt that he had been given too much credit for one chance idea.
That statement pleased another visitor who heard it. Madden Henshew had found occasion to visit Michael Chanbury. One afternoon, Chanbury had shown Henshew and Harry all through the big mansion, with its hall-like picture galleries.
"Paintings," Chanbury had said to Henshew, "interest me far more than jewels. It is too bad, Henshew, that you are not an art dealer. I might become your best customer."
There was one man who chafed under the long lull that had followed the robbery at Silsam's. That man was Police Commissioner Weston.
On this particular afternoon, two weeks after Harry's rescue, Weston was seated in his big office, nervously strumming the desk. Weston's mind was badly disturbed. He was therefore somewhat pleased when Clyde Burke sauntered in to pay a passing call.
"Hello, Burke!" greeted Weston. Then, hopefully: "Any news?"
"None about Shark Meglo."
"Too bad," declared Weston ruefully. "Gad, Burke, I wish you could dig up facts regarding those robberies! I had hopes that you could do so after the keen manner in which you solved the Cranston riddle."
Still strumming the desk, Weston stared from his window, scanning the broad reaches of Manhattan. In a weary tone, he commented:
"Shark Meglo is somewhere in this city. So is another man, a master-criminal. We are hunting blindly; and all the time, new crime is drawing closer."
"Maybe not," said Clyde. "You published a full description of the stolen gems. That ought to crimp another sale."
"I hope so, Burke," returned the commissioner. "No more sales, no more crimes. That seems logical.
And yet it's my belief -"
He paused. Impatiently, he picked up a newspaper and thwacked the front page.
"Any day, Burke!" he exclaimed. "Any day, these pages may reek with horror! New death - new robbery! It's a dreadful responsibility, being police commissioner."
As he placed the newspaper on the table, Weston indulged in a relieved smile. He pointed to a photograph on the front page. It showed a long, lean face, with high forehead; firm eyes gazed beneath straight brows. The picture was of Kent Allard, the lost aviator who was arriving home from Guatemala.
"There's a man for you, Burke," declared Weston. "Twelve years ago, his plane crashed in the jungles of Guatemala. He was crippled, helpless among a tribe of Xinca Indians; and I understand those savages are the most barbarous in Central America.
"Did Allard yield to those Xincas? No! Instead, he tamed them. He lived with them; ruled them. When he had civilized them to a state where they could govern themselves, he appointed a native as chief. A work of twelve years was ended, so Kent Allard came home."
Clyde nodded his admiration for the famous aviator. The reporter was sorry that he had not taken the Guatemalan assignment; for Allard's return had developed into the most sensational news story in years.
It was due for its culmination today, when Allard arrived in New York.
There was a ring of Weston's telephone bell. It presaged one of the best scoops that Clyde had ever had as a newspaper reporter. Clyde did not know that, until Weston finished talking over the wire. The commissioner's face showed huge enthusiasm.
"Bad news and good," announced Weston. "The mayor is too ill to receive Allard when he arrives. I have been appointed to take His Honor's place. You can come with me, Burke."
THEY met Kent Allard at the Battery, amid the greatest medley of chimes and whistle-blasts that had sounded since the Armistice.
Tall, limber, the famed aviator wore a solemn look upon his thin, bronzed face. He was as solemn as the pair of short-built Xinca Indians who had come back with him from Central America.
Weston and Allard entered an open car and Clyde joined them, much to the envy of other reporters who were on the scene. Allard spoke brief words to the Xincas; following his bidding, the two Indians went aboard another automobile.
The procession moved up Broadway, beneath a storm of torn paper that was streaked with ribbons of ticker tape. Thousands of windows were disgorging that man-made deluge amid the fading light of late afternoon. The shouts of multitudes rolled among the canyon between the mighty buildings; drowning the music of the band that led the parade.
It was that spectacle that only Manhattan can produce: the home-coming welcome for a man of recognized achievement. It was a titanic expression of modern approval that dwarfed a Roman triumph; yet Kent Allard received it with surpassing calmness.
His bows to the welcoming throng were properly timed. His smile, when he showed it, was genuine.
When the procession had passed the greatest tumult, Allard chatted with Weston and Clyde, showing no partiality between the commissioner and the reporter.
At the city hall, the aviator received the formal greeting and spoke well chosen words into a microphone, that was hooked up with a countrywide circuit. He observed the radio announcer's watch and timed his talk to the exact five minutes that had been allotted him.
Then came the trip to the huge uptown hotel, where a suite had been reserved for Allard. Attired in evening clothes, the aviator met Weston later and appeared as guest of honor to a huge banquet.
Clyde was still the commissioner's guest; and all through that early evening, the reporter marveled at the tireless manner of Allard.
The speech that Allard made was a masterful account of the Xinca Indians, from the days of their ancient myths to an analysis of their modern life and customs. It was agreed by all who talked with the famous aviator, that they had never met a man quite the equal of Kent Allard.
NINE o'clock found Allard back in his suite, with only Weston and Clyde present; excepting, of course, the two Xincas, who were Allard's personal attendants.
There was one point upon which Allard had dwelt but little; namely, how the Xincas had accepted him as the white god from the sky. Allard seemed to consider that of but little importance.
Viewing the two Xincas, both Weston and Clyde noticed how definitely Allard had modified that detail.
It was plain that the servitors worshipped their white chief; that every action they made was hinged upon his command. In private, Kent Allard was quite as amazing a figure as in public.
"I admire the way you controlled those savage tribesmen," confided Weston. "I wish, by Jove, that we could use the same system with some of the dangerous characters that rove our underworld!"
Allard's clear blue eyes fixed themselves upon Weston. The commissioner met a stare that carried a hypnotic strength. He began to understand how the lost aviator had held complete mastery over hundreds of natives for twelve long, continuous years.
"Criminals can be handled," declared Allard. "But they should not be compared with the Xincas. The Indians, though savage, are human. Some denizens of your underworld could be better defined as jackals."