“It meant enough to him,” rejoined Wingate. “He made you the sole heir to his estate.”
“He did?” queried Roger, in surprise. “That is astonishing! I had thought that he might leave me a small percentage of his wealth. Maybe as high as a hundred thousand dollars. But I never dreamed that I would be the sole heir.”
“You are,” interjected Wingate, “but you have gained a false impression of your uncle’s estate. His total assets — to which you are fully entitled — will not be in excess of fifty thousand dollars!”
Roger Parchell gaped. His face showed an unbelieving stare. He looked from Wingate to the others.
Then he shook his head and laughed.
“I don’t believe it,” he affirmed. “My uncle — with no disrespect to his memory — was a miser. So far as his money is concerned, I can do without it, whatever the amount. I am speaking in purely an impersonal fashion when I say that Uncle Hildrew must have been worth a full million dollars, at the very least.”
“There is no way,” snapped Wingate, “in which any one could estimate the amount of wealth that Hildrew Parchell possessed. I am going only by the records which are in my possession. They are accurate.
“Fifty thousand dollars. His assets totaled that sum. I do agree that it is possible that Hildrew Parchell may have placed certain money elsewhere. But there is no clue to any source where stored wealth might be.”
“Except for this,” interposed The Shadow. His tone was Cranston’s; his smile was slight as he picked up the newspaper that Selwood Royce had been reading. “The jewelry, stolen last night, belonged to Hildrew Parchell.”
“It did not,” retorted Wingate. “That jewelry was in the possession of Channing Tobold. It had been pledged for a paltry sum of five thousand dollars and was probably worth less at present values.”
“But possibly,” added The Shadow, his tone as quiet as before, “worth far more than the amount for which the gems were pawned. Hildrew Parchell could have placed it with the pawnbroker, naming a figure far smaller than the actual worth of the jewels.”
WINGATE glared. Royce shot a keen glance toward The Shadow. Roger Parchell looked puzzled.
“What’s this all about?” inquired the heir. “A robbery? Of jewelry belonging to my uncle? When did it occur?”
“Last night,” replied Royce. “A murder was involved. The newspapers were filled with the accounts of a battle among mobsters.”
“All news to me,” returned Roger. “I have been on the go for two days. You see” — he turned to Wingate — “I was not in San Francisco when your wire came. I had closed my office; a friend happened in there at the time the wire arrived. He called me by long distance in Los Angeles; I told him to send you a wired reply, that I was coming East. Then I took off from Los Angeles by plane.”
“And you read no newspapers?” asked Wingate.
“None today,” returned Roger. “I was asleep when we stopped at Cincinnati. I had time to call you; then we took off and I went to sleep again.”
He reached for the newspaper. Wingate stopped him. Putting the journal to one side, the attorney held up his hand and began to speak.
“Let me explain the circumstances from the beginning,” he suggested. “That, I believe, will clarify all that has happened. First of all, Roger, your uncle’s death was due to heart failure; but circumstances surrounding it were accidental.
“Doctor Raymond Deseurre, your uncle’s physician, stated that death might well have been expected. Your uncle’s condition had long been a serious one. He was in bed when stricken; falling, he overturned a table and a candle set fire to the bedstead. Tristram, your uncle’s servant, extinguished the blaze.”
Wingate paused after this brief statement. He continued with added details.
“A headquarters inspector came to the house,” declared the lawyer. “This man — his name is Cardona — is reputed to be the most competent member of the New York force. He conducted a thorough investigation and finally decided that your uncle’s death had been accidental.
“I had assured Cardona that all of Hildrew Parchell’s documents were in order. He called me yesterday, after I had gone over the original papers, comparing them with duplicates. Cardona was fully satisfied that nothing was amiss.
“Last night, thugs entered an obscure pawnshop owned by an old man named Channing Tobold. Apparently, rival factions attempted to rifle the place at the same time. They battled; mobsters were slain, and Tobold, himself, was killed.
“Police, investigating, found Tobold’s safe opened. They referred to the pawnbroker’s books. There had been nothing of value in the place except a box containing jewels valued at five thousand dollars. That box was gone.
“Detective Cardona was again the acting inspector on the case. On the floor behind Tobold’s counter, he discovered a crumpled list that corresponded with one in the safe. This list named the items in the stolen box. Cardona also learned that the stolen jewelry had once belonged to Hildrew Parchell.”
“My uncle had pawned it with Tobold?” inquired Roger.
“Yes,” replied Wingate. “Discovering that, Cardona came here to see me. I produced the pawn ticket and correspondence between Hildrew Parchell and Channing Tobold. Discussing the matter, Cardona and I agreed that the robbery at the pawnshop was merely a coincidence; that it had nothing to do with your uncle’s death.”
“But,” began Roger, “sometimes coincidences are important—”
“NOT in this case.” interposed Wingate. “Tobold’s pawnshop was an open target for crooks. It was a wonder that they had not attacked it before. Naturally, they took only articles that appeared to be of value. Those jewels were all that were in the place. Moreover, we are sure to learn more about them shortly.”
“How so?” inquired Roger.
“It is obvious,” returned Wingate, “that hoodlums of the crudest type were responsible for the robbery at Tobold’s. Such thieves have no way of obtaining high value, for goods that they purloin.
“They ‘fence’ stolen articles for a small percentage of the actual worth. Where murder is involved with robbery, small-fry crooks were anxious to get rid of their spoils quickly. To use their own parlance, the stuff is ‘hot’ and must be dropped in a hurry.”
“If Mr. Cranston were familiar with ways of criminals” — Wingate paused to stare steadily at his calm-faced visitor — “he would realize that there is nothing complex or mysterious in a pawnshop robbery. I predict” — Wingate was emphatic — “that the gems stolen from Tobold’s will be recovered by the police within one week!
“Then we shall see the folly of the theory that Mr. Cranston has suggested. The police hold complete lists of the stolen items. One list in Hildrew Parchell’s handwriting; the other in Channing Tobold’s. Those lists will identify the gems.”
“I grant you this, however” — Wingate was almost sarcastic — “if the jewelry is not uncovered it may be possible — slightly possible — that others than mere hoodlums were concerned in their theft.”
“If some one suspected that Hildrew Parchell might have stored away unknown wealth; if that same person had learned of the jewelry at Tobold’s; if, again, that individual had suddenly gained the theory that those gems were overrated in value — well” — Wingate paused to smirk — “well, if all those ‘ifs’ were possible, a smart crook might have been behind the robbery at the pawnshop.”
“To such a man, if he existed” — Wingate was wagging a forefinger in emphasis — “five thousand dollars would be a paltry sum. If — a probable ‘if’ — at last, this impossible sort of thief found that the jewelry was worth only the five thousand dollars at which it is rated, he would never attempt to ‘fence’ it. Being a man of brains, he would not run the risk of throwing clues into view.”