“But suppose,” put in Selwood Royce, “the gems were actually worth an immense sum? What would happen then?”
“They would be fenced,” replied Wingate, “probably somewhere else than in New York. And let me tell you this” — the forefinger was still wagging — “the appearance of gems of high value in the open market would attract immediate attention.”
“But why all this foolish speculation?” Wingate laughed as he settled back in his chair and folded both hands. “I have told you that the jewels were trifles. If they do not show up, we shall know that some would-be master crook fooled himself and has destroyed them so that evidence will be lacking.”
“If the jewels are recovered, their low value will be proven and we shall know that common thugs were responsible. This is not my sole opinion. Detective Cardona shares it also. Just as he and I agree upon the matter of what happened here last night.”
“Something happened here?” questioned Royce.
“Yes,” replied Wingate, “A sneak thief came into this office. Braddock surprised the fellow. They had a brief set-to and the thief escaped. There, Mr. Cranston, would be another problem for a sleuth. A connection. Robbery at Tobold’s; attempted theft here.
“But men of fact, like Detective Cardona and myself, know that small-time crime is so prevalent in Manhattan that ninety-nine per cent of supposed connections are no more than coincidences. I told Cardona about a sneak thief being here. We both laughed at the thought of Braddock frightening the rogue away.”
There was a pause; then Wingate arose. In a mild, indulgent tone, the lawyer spoke with finality.
“I DO not blame you for your theory, Cranston,” said Wingate, dryly. “Naturally, you are interested in those scarabs that you believed Hildrew Parchell owned. You would, of course, think that they might have been with the rifled jewelry. But they were not. I saw the bona fide lists. The gems were old family jewelry that had belonged to Hildrew Parchell and his wife. The old man pawned the jewels because he knew Tobold and because he had no place of his own in which to keep them.
“Well, Roger” — Wingate had turned toward the heir — “I had not expected you to come East so promptly. Could you spare a week? It will be that long before your uncle’s estate can be settled.”
“I can stay indefinitely,” replied Roger. “I intend to stop at the Hotel Metrolite. I’m going there right now, to get some sleep.”
“Suppose you come out to Long Island,” suggested Selwood Royce. “Not tonight, for I am not returning there until later. Nor tomorrow, when I shall be busy. But if you can come out the day after tomorrow, you can remain at my home during the rest of your stay.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. “But of course, Royce, I should not want to put you out.”
“You won’t,” chuckled Royce. “You should see my place, Roger. It was my father’s, and he added wings to the house until it became the size of a young hotel. It even has an art gallery, filled with paintings that my father collected.”
“Paintings of much value?” queried Wingate.
“No,” returned Royce. “Father went in for oddities in art. Portraits that look at you wherever you go; faces that seem to smile if you watch them. Bizarre scenes of mobs and executions. The gallery is one of freaks.”
Pausing, Royce turned toward The Shadow.
“The gallery would interest you, Mr. Cranston,” he said. “You have collected curios. Some of these paintings could be placed in that class. Any time you choose, you will be a welcome visitor.
“Some time ago, one of the newspapers called up to arrange an interview with me on the subject of art. I stalled them off; but I suppose if a reporter comes out to see me, I shall have to show him the gallery.”
“Well, Roger, don’t forget that I shall expect you. I have just time” — Royce glanced at his watch — “to keep an appointment at my club. I must be leaving.”
Royce departed; The Shadow, remembering a mythical Cranston appointment, left also. Roger Parchell started at the same time for his hotel. The meeting at Wingate’s was ended.
BENEATH the blue light in his sanctum, The Shadow read reports from his agents. Moe Shrevnitz had recovered his cab. Police had picked it up abandoned as a stolen car. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye were in the underworld, scouring for information concerning dead mobsters.
Harry Vincent had returned to New York. He was at the Hotel Metrolite, his usual headquarters; Roger Parchell had merely chanced to choose the same hotel. Clyde Burke, visiting police headquarters, had learned nothing of importance from Joe Cardona.
The Shadow reached for the earphones on the wall. His whispered voice spoke to Burbank, giving new orders. Every agent had functions to perform; in fact, The Shadow was calling in the services of another man, whom he seldom used, to aid him.
There was reason for The Shadow’s action. In sounding Weldon Wingate, The Shadow had listened while the lawyer had stated possibilities that The Shadow, himself, had already considered. Though The Shadow knew that Homer Hothan had gone to Tobold’s pawnshop in search of hidden wealth, he also realized that those stolen jewels represented a long shot.
The presence of the silver skull ring had evidently prompted both Hothan and the master crook to their fullest effort. Somehow, evil workers had gained some clue to wealth that involved a skull.
Yet the chance still existed that a wrong bet had been made; that the stolen jewelry was of comparatively little value. If so, crime might soon again be rampant. That was why The Shadow was again preparing.
From now on, every person concerned with Hildrew Parchell would be watched by The Shadow. Some of them might need protection. Among the others, there might be one The Shadow wanted.
The big-shot. The man who had hired Homer Hothan. For The Shadow was sure that the hiding ex-secretary was serving a master who had long since gained knowledge concerning the affairs of old Hildrew Parchell.
The unknown crook, slayer of Channing Tobold, had shown himself too bold to leave all to a weakling such as Hothan. The big-shot must be ready to play his own cards when occasion demanded. This, The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER X. SPOILS RECLAIMED
“THAT’S all, Burke.”
Joe Cardona was emphatic as he made the statement. The detective was seated behind his desk at headquarters. Standing near him was another police officer: Detective Sergeant Markham. Clyde Burke was lounging at the opposite side of the desk.
It was late afternoon. Clyde Burke had come here for a story. The jewelry stolen from Tobold’s pawnshop had been reclaimed and the reporter wanted the details. But Cardona had been more than usually stingy with his information.
“It’s not much dope, Joe,” declared Clyde, ruefully. “You say you got the jewels back through a fence; but you don’t tell me who the fence was—”
“Why should I?” interrupted Cardona. “Do you think I want to make trouble for the fellow by giving his name to the newspapers?”
“I won’t print it, Joe—”
“Then why do you want it?”
Clyde had no answer to Cardona’s question. The ace detective scowled.
“Listen, Burke,” he said, “you’ve got all you need to know. I’ll repeat it. The stolen stuff was left with a jeweler for appraisal—”
“Who left it?”
“An unidentified stranger. Looked like a rowdy. The jeweler was suspicious. He notified the police. We looked over the gems and found them all there, according to the list.”