In that call to Burbank, he had given orders to be forwarded to Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s trusted aids. Harry was to leave New York tonight; his destination would be Chalwood, Ohio. Through his agent, The Shadow intended to learn the whereabouts and recent activities of Homer Hothan.
CHAPTER IV. WINGATE’S VISITORS
IT was late the next afternoon. Weldon Wingate was seated at a large desk in a room that was equipped as an office. This room formed a portion of the attorney’s large apartment. A consulting lawyer, Wingate had arranged a penthouse as both office and living quarters.
The door of the office opened. A dreary-faced man entered carrying a sheaf of papers. He laid these on the desk, then spoke to Wingate.
“A gentleman is here, sir,” declared the man. “His name is Lamont Cranston. He wishes to see you.”
Wingate cocked his gray head and peered at the informant through his horn-rimmed spectacles. The lawyer had heard of Lamont Cranston, the millionaire globe-trotter.
“What does he wish to see me about, Braddock?” queried Wingate. “Did Mr. Cranston state the purpose of his visit?”
“Not exactly, sir. He said that it concerned the death of old Mr. Parchell.”
“Show Mr. Cranston in, Braddock.”
THE visitor who entered the office a few minutes later was tall and of distinguished appearance.
Weldon Wingate saw Lamont Cranston as a man whose features were as chiseled as those of a statue.
There was something hawklike about Cranston’s expression; and the mold of his face was accentuated by the immobility of his features.
Wingate noted the glimmer of keen eyes that peered from the masklike visage. The light lessened as the visitor shook hands in a leisurely fashion.
Cranston appeared blase as he seated himself opposite the white-haired attorney. This lethargic action caused Wingate’s shrewd inspection to end.
The lawyer did not suspect that he was face to face with that incredible being known as The Shadow.
The guise of Lamont Cranston was one that The Shadow had practiced to perfection. Wingate was still wondering what had brought the visitor here but he was lulled by The Shadow’s manner.
“Is there something, Mr. Cranston,” inquired Wingate, “that you wish to know about the estate of Hildrew Parchell? Or do you have information that might be of interest to me?”
“Both.” The Shadow pronounced the word in a quiet effortless tone. “It happens, Mr. Wingate, that I was once acquainted with Hildrew Parchell.”
There was doubt in Wingate’s quizzical air. The Shadow appeared not to notice it.
“As a traveler,” resumed The Shadow, “I am also a collector of rare curios. Some few years ago, I learned that Hildrew Parchell owned a collection of Egyptian scarabs. I was anxious to purchase them, so I discussed that matter with Parchell.”
“Just where,” questioned Wingate, “did you visit Hildrew Parchell?”
The lawyer’s smooth question was a trapping one. The Shadow countered it with a slight smile.
“Hildrew Parchell came to see me,” he responded, in the tone of Cranston. “He had heard of my collection of scarabs. He called me by telephone, introduced himself, and arranged a visit to my home. It was there that he told me of the scarabs which he owned.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I disremember. My trips abroad are so frequent and so varied that I find it difficult to recall my meetings with different persons. The point, Mr. Wingate, is that Hildrew Parchell made it emphatic that he intended to keep his scarabs. That is why I have come to see you. Should the scarabs be in the possession of the estate, I should like to be the first bidder when they are offered for sale.”
WINGATE nodded slowly. The lawyer was evidently undergoing a complexity of thought. He rubbed his chin in meditation; then spoke frankly and directly.
“Mr. Cranston,” he declared, “I am in possession of all of Hildrew Parchell’s papers and correspondence. I have duplicates as well as the originals that were at his home. The originals were brought here last night by Parchell’s servant.
“I have checked the duplicates with the originals. They correspond. I know all the details of Hildrew Parchell’s estate. He owned no Egyptian scarabs.”
“Quite odd,” mused The Shadow.
“That Hildrew Parchell owned no scarabs?” inquired Wingate.
“No,” returned The Shadow. “The oddity is that you should know all the details of Hildrew Parchell’s estate.”
“I was his attorney.”
“Yes; but Hildrew Parchell was immensely wealthy. It seems impossible that all his affairs could be remembered in full detail.”
Wingate smiled dryly.
“You are wrong, Mr. Cranston,” he insisted. “Hildrew Parchell was not wealthy. Fifty thousand dollars would be a high estimate for the value of his estate.
The Shadow’s gaze was penetrating. It was his turn to show doubt. Wingate noticed it and became uneasy.
“Perhaps,” observed The Shadow, calmly, “the missing scarabs may be the key to other wealth. Possibly Hildrew Parchell had more than his visible estate.”
Wingate shifted his gaze. He drummed the desk in meditative fashion. At last he spoke, looking directly at his visitor.
“I believe that you are right, Mr. Cranston,” declared the lawyer, frankly. “I tried to turn you from the trail, because I felt that it would be unwise to express my opinions to a stranger. But since you have already formed your own conclusion, I can see no harm in stating my own.
“I presume, of course, that you read of Hildrew Parchell’s sudden death in the morning newspapers. Though Parchell had not anticipated death so soon, the circumstances of his passing were not startling, in view of his condition. It is possible, however, that death may have prevented him from giving me added information regarding his possessions.
“You are right, Mr. Cranston, when you state the belief that Hildrew Parchell should have been worth far more than fifty thousand dollars. He was something of a miser; it is possible that he may have stored away a considerable mass of wealth.”
Wingate paused; then added:
“As Hildrew Parchell’s attorney, it is my duty to institute a search for such hidden funds and to bestow that wealth, if found, upon the person or persons entitled to it.”
Again Wingate paused. The Shadow spoke.
“I suppose, Mr. Wingate,” he inquired, in Cranston’s tone, “that you have already evolved a plan of search?”
“I have,” assured Wingate. “Hildrew Parchell had certain friends and associates. I intend to write them in reference to this matter. Their names are at my disposal. They were in Hildrew Parchell’s files.”
“Persons like myself?” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “Ones who had certain contact with Hildrew Parchell?”
“Not chance acquaintances,” returned Wingate, emphatically. “The persons to whom I refer, Mr. Cranston, are those with whom Hildrew Parchell had actual correspondence. They are few — very few — in number. I do not feel at liberty to reveal their names.”
WITH this declaration, Wingate arose. He extended his hand to the visitor.
“I thank you, Mr. Cranston,” said the attorney, “for informing me about the matter of the scarabs. Should we uncover hidden possessions belonging to Hildrew Parchell, we may find the scarabs among them. If so, I shall have the heir notify you.”
“The heir?” questioned The Shadow.
“Yes,” replied Wingate. “Roger Parchell, the old man’s nephew. I have wired him in San Francisco. I received a reply that he is leaving for the East today.”
The door opened as The Shadow was shaking hands with Wingate. Braddock entered; behind him was a quiet-looking, well-dressed man of about thirty. The visitor stepped past Braddock. Wingate pursed his lips in annoyed fashion, realizing that he would have to make an introduction.