Dazed and limp, the secretary remained motionless. His head turned upward; his blurred gaze saw a mass of blackness, swinging toward the desk. The light went out.
A swish sounded in the darkness. The office door opened. Then Braddock heard the clicking sound of the intruder’s departure.
With a mad gasp, the secretary came to his feet. He stumbled to the desk and turned on the lamp. He saw his gun upon the floor. He regained it.
Braddock dashed to the door that led into the anteroom. It was locked. The Shadow had taken the key from the inside and had used it on the outside.
Revolver in hand, Braddock dashed back to the desk and grabbed the telephone. Then he realized that it was an outside wire.
The secretary ran through to the apartment. He reached the telephone in the living room and put in a call to the lobby. He asked for Hastings, who was always there in Wingate’s service. To Hastings, Braddock poured forth details.
Hastings announced that he would send help up while he searched below. Pale faced, Braddock slumped into a chair, hoping that the intruder would be stopped before he escaped from the building. But this was not to be.
ALREADY, The Shadow had reached the outside darkness. Moving away from the apartment house, he was approaching a limousine that was parked in the blackness of a rear street.
The Shadow had timed Braddock’s recovery. He had allowed a sufficient period for unmolested departure.
The Shadow had no quarrel with Braddock. His aim had been to prevent the secretary’s interference.
The fact that Wingate was out; the importance of getting to Tobold’s — these were the elements that had caused The Shadow to make all speed.
A soft laugh was The Shadow’s recollection of that swift fracas. Braddock’s only remembrance would be of a shapeless form that had hurled him weaponless; the departure of a phantom figure that might have been a ghost for all that Braddock knew.
The Shadow had reached the limousine. Entering it noiselessly, he spoke through the speaking tube, giving directions in the quiet tones of Lamont Cranston.
The uniformed chauffeur nodded. He drove away in the direction that The Shadow had ordered.
The destination was in the vicinity of Channing Tobold’s pawnshop. There, The Shadow would dismiss the limousine and fare forth through the darkness. He was on his way to a spot where danger might well be due.
CHAPTER VI. THE SILVER SKULL
THE SHADOW had chosen Channing Tobold’s pawnshop as his destination. In doing so, he had picked a goal that was far from Weldon Wingate’s. The apartment building where the lawyer lived was in the Fifties, west of Broadway. The old pawnshop was located on the fringe of the lower East Side, below the numbered streets.
A battered brick building, it stood like a skeleton scarecrow upon a poorly lighted corner. A relic of the past; a structure that had survived while those about it had been crumbling. Such was the edifice that Channing Tobold had kept for residence and business.
Located in a forgotten district of Manhattan, where decayed buildings were standing only because their owners had postponed tearing them down, the old pawnshop remained as a landmark of the Nineteenth Century.
Rusted bars showed on the front of dingy windows. Dull light gleamed from grimy panes on the second story where Channing Tobold lived.
It was behind those upper windows that a scene was occurring at the very time when The Shadow was leaving the proximity of Wingate’s apartment.
TWO men formed a strange contrast as they faced each other across a scarred wooden counter in an upstairs office. One was Channing Tobold, a withered old man who was hunched almost double. He was wearing thick-lensed spectacles; his white-haired head was topped with a black skullcap.
His hands cupped to his ears, the old pawnbroker was trying to catch the words that a visitor was uttering. Meanwhile, he eyed the man with partial suspicion. For the customer that Tobold had admitted was a sallow, shrewd-faced individual whom the pawnbroker mistrusted.
Hunched across the counter, the visitor was leaning close to Tobold. Harshly, directly in the old man’s ear, he was announcing his identity, explaining the reason for his visit.
“I’ve told you my name,” he insisted. “It’s Hothan. Homer Hothan. I’ve talked to you over the telephone. Some months ago. I’m Hildrew Parchell’s secretary.”
“Hey?” questioned Tobold sharply. “You say Hildrew Parchell sent you?”
“He couldn’t send me. Hildrew Parchell is dead. Dead! Didn’t you read about it in the newspapers?”
“Dead — Hildrew Parchell dead!” Tobold’s face saddened. The old man mumbled to himself. “My old friend dead.”
“That’s why I’m here,” announced Hothan, making his own tone gloomy. “He wanted me to come here. To talk to you.”
Tobold caught these words. He could hear more readily after he had accustomed himself to the tone of the stranger’s voice. Hothan, too, had changed the pitch of his words. He kept the new modulation, seeing that it was bringing results.
“I came here,” he explained, “to talk to you about some jewels that Hildrew Parchell pawned. Five thousand dollars was their value.”
Old Tobold shook his head. Grief had changed to new mistrust.
“I take no jewels here,” declared the pawnbroker. “I do not want to be robbed. I keep only stock that people will not steal. I am an old man — a poor man—”
“I know that story,” broke in Hothan. “I’ll agree that you don’t take gems as a rule. But you took this lot.”
“Always,” objected Tobold, “I give a ticket. It must be brought to claim whatever has been pawned here.”
“This ticket was lost. That’s why old Parchell told me to come and see you. He thought you would remember me. Look” — Hothan dug into his pocket and brought out a wad of money — “I have the five thousand dollars. That’s as good as a ticket, isn’t it?”
“I need the ticket.”
“But it’s been lost. I tell you. Burned up, in a fire.” Hothan smiled at his own bluff. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Tobold. I can show you something better than the ticket. Bring out that box. I’ll open it for you.”
The pawnbroker stared.
“Come on,” urged Hothan. “I tell you that I’m all right. I’m from Hildrew Parchell. He gave me the combination, and here’s the money. I want to see those gems. I can open the box.”
CHANNING TOBOLD turned about. He went into a little alcove behind the counter and stooped before a safe. He turned the combination. The safe came open.
Hothan could see that the interior was almost empty. But from it, Tobold produced one object: a metal box.
The pawnbroker brought the box to the counter. He laid it there, but kept his hands upon it. He looked up challengingly at Hothan. The sallow-faced man reached down and began to turn dialed letters that controlled the lock of the box.
Carefully, Hothan formed a single word. He pointed to it. Old Tobold leaned forward and studied the combination. He noted the word that Hothan had made. The letters spelled: THYME
“Open the box,” suggested Hothan. The pawnbroker tugged at the lid. It swung upward. Within it lay a glistening array of rings and other jewelry. Brooches and bracelets vied with their sparkles.
“Some belonged to Mrs. Parchell,” remarked Tobold. “She died many years ago. A few of the others — rings, of course — were Hildrew’s. Poor Hildrew. Dead!”
Hothan made no effort to touch any of the jewelry. He was working to gain Tobold’s confidence. He looked warily about. Past the counter was a metal-sheathed doorway, unbolted, that led into the living quarters, where Hothan knew there must be a stairway at the rear.
Behind Hothan was the door through which Tobold had admitted him. It led upstairs from the front door; the steps ended abruptly at the entrance to this room. Tobold had neglected to lock that lower door, a point that pleased Hothan.