Hawkeye caught a glimpse of a fading form. The Shadow was gone.
FIVE minutes later, The Shadow entered the rear door of a small cigar store. He stepped into an empty back room. A telephone was on the wall in one corner. The Shadow made a call, speaking in a guarded whisper. Burbank answered.
Word to The Shadow. Burbank had received Hawkeye’s prompt call. He had phoned Harry Vincent at the Metrolite. While Moe had been taking plenty of time on his drive to the Pennsylvania Station, Harry had headed there.
Harry had spotted Hothan and the mobsmen leaving Moe’s cab. They had gone to the Long Island ticket office. There, Hothan had bought a ticket to Cordova, Long Island. The others had followed suit.
The Shadow whispered instructions. He hung up the receiver and departed. A soft laugh sounded on the outside street. Cordova was the station near which Selwood Royce’s home was located.
The trail was leading to the focal point. A grim game was due tonight. Henchmen were on their way in response to a big-shot’s order. The pay-off was coming; and The Shadow would be there.
CHAPTER XVII. ON LONG ISLAND
THREE men were sipping cordials at a massive dinner table. A butler was removing dishes while they chatted. This trio had finished an excellent meal in the quiet surroundings of an oak-paneled dining room.
Selwood Royce was the host; his two companions were Roger Parchell and Clyde Burke.
“Well, Burke,” queried Royce, with a pleasant smile, “have I made amends for last night’s error?”
“You have,” replied Clyde, with a chuckle. “But I still maintain that I didn’t intend to breeze in here just before dinner time. I came out to see the art gallery.”
“And I invited you to have dinner first. You will have ample time to view the paintings later. Particularly” — Royce paused to listen — “because of the storm that is breaking. It seems that we are due for a prolonged downpour.”
Heavy rain patter was increasing as Royce spoke. A storm had been threatening all day. At last, it was coming in heavily from Long Island Sound. Out here, on Long Island, the deluge had arrived and was sweeping in toward Manhattan.
“Well,” decided Clyde, “I have only this one assignment for the evening. I’m in no rush to get back to New York, Mr. Royce. As long as I’m not intruding—”
“You can stay here as long as you like, Burke. All night if you wish. There’s room enough in this mansion for a regiment.”
CLYDE smiled as he lighted a cigarette. This was to his liking. He had been sent here by The Shadow, with instructions to arrive early and stay late. At any time, he could communicate with Burbank by faking a telephone call to the Classic office.
Clyde knew that The Shadow expected trouble to strike this mansion. Perhaps not as early as tonight, but eventually. Rather than start with too close a vigil, The Shadow had relied on Clyde to keep a lookout until later.
“You are sure that Wingate will be here, Roger?” inquired Royce, turning to young Parchell. “What did he have to say the last time he called you up?”
“Wingate is on his way,” replied Roger. “That last call was from his secretary; that chap Braddock. He said that Wingate had been delayed, but had finally started. He has to go somewhere, though, before he comes here. So he may be later than we expected.”
Clyde Burke looked inquisitive. Selwood Royce noticed it and smiled.
“Weldon Wingate called before you arrived,” explained the millionaire. “He talked with Roger and said that he was coming out. This matter of the Parchell estate seems to weigh heavily on his mind.”
“It should,” smiled Clyde.
“I have an idea” — Royce looked at Clyde closely — “that you heard something of that discussion at Morth’s this morning.”
“I heard all of it,” acknowledged Clyde, frankly, “but it’s not going in the Classic. I promised Cardona I’d lay off until he had a chance to nab this fellow Hothan.”
“That’s fine of you, Burke,” commended Roger. “I thought that ethics had just about disappeared from the journalistic profession. Your attitude, however convinces me that I was incorrect in that belief.”
“It wasn’t ethics,” chuckled Clyde. “It was just good judgment. I’ll pass up half a story any time, if it will help me get the inside track on a full story later.”
Both Royce and Roger laughed.
“Since you’ve brought up the subject,” resumed Clyde, “and since you know I’m not spilling it, why not give me your slant on it? The whole works will break some time. I want to be posted when it does.”
“Well,” decided Royce, “I hope, on Roger’s account, than this wealth of his uncle’s is more than mythical. If it exists, it’s Roger’s. He was the sole heir to the estate. There are no other relatives.”
“Which is fortunate,” remarked Roger, dryly. “Uncle Hildrew always classed me as a ‘wastrel,’ to use one of his own pet terms. If there had been any one else in the family, they might have had first share.
“As it is, I believe my uncle wanted to have a jest with me. I always thought that his estate must be worth a half million at least. But the evidence in his files points to fifty thousand as the limit.
“I am inclining to the belief that this supposed treasure is a double hoax. I think that Uncle Hildrew exaggerated matters just to disappoint me. In keeping with his plan, he probably fed some false information to his secretary, Hothan.”
“Before he discharged Hothan?” queried Clyde.
“Probably,” answered Roger. “Naturally, when Uncle Hildrew died, Hothan started out to look for the treasure himself. Apparently, Hothan is a crook of the worst sort.”
ROGER PARCHELL paused. Selwood Royce took up the comment.
“Your theory is excellent, Roger,” stated the young millionaire. “Your uncle trusted Hothan at one time. He could easily have decided that the man would start talking after his death and thus start a treasure hunt. But I do not believe that the trail is blind. I feel sure that the wealth exists.”
“Why so?”
“Because of your uncle’s actions on the evening of his death. Why should he have told Tristram to summon me to his home?”
“Your father was his friend. He wanted to meet you, Selwood.”
“Certainly. But he must have had a reason. Look at it this way, Roger. Your uncle had talked to Hothan — unwisely — but he had not said too much. He later decided that Hothan was not trustworthy. He wanted a new confidant. So he sent for me.”
“He had Wingate—”
“To handle his apparent estate, yes. But he probably believed that Wingate would not approve of hiding wealth in an eccentric fashion. That’s why he never talked to Wingate.”
“There was Doctor Deseurre.”
“His physician, only. And Deseurre is a rather cagey bird Roger. I couldn’t fancy myself giving him sole access to important information. As for Tristram, he was nothing but a poor old servant. Faithful in small matters; but a dubious confidant.”
Selwood Royce sat back in his chair. Roger Parchell looked unconvinced. Clyde Burke took up the theme.
“Let me get this complete, Mr. Royce,” suggested the reporter. “Your theory is that Hildrew Parchell wanted to give you the details of where his wealth was hidden. That he wanted Wingate — and perhaps Deseurre — to be there as witnesses.”
“That’s right,” acknowledged Royce.
“And Hothan was to be completely out?” inquired Clyde.
“Absolutely,” affirmed Royce. “More than that, Hildrew Parchell may have expected trouble from the fellow. He may have known that Hothan would be waiting until his death to start a search for the buried funds. Hildrew Parchell wanted us to start first.”