“All right, chief.” Wickroft came to his feet. “I’ll get my hat and coat and tell Baxter that I’m going into the city. You can come out the front way with me. Baxter won’t know it, he’s up on the third floor. Just how,” — Wickroft looked quizzical — “did you get in here, chief?”
“I jimmied the side window,” answered Kelk.
“Better lock it up,” suggested Wickroft, “while I’m talking to Baxter. Turn out the light and meet me in the hall.”
RED curtains moved imperceptibly as The Shadow silently raised the sash beyond and glided into the outside darkness. Gloved hands lowered the sash; The Shadow clung to the blackness beside the house wall. He heard Kelk lock the jimmied window.
The Shadow moved through the night. He reached the street, traveled one block townward and stopped at a secluded place where he had parked his big car. He waited there a few minutes; then came the approaching footsteps of two men on the opposite side of the street. Kelk and Wickroft, heading for the station.
The Shadow waited until they were out of earshot; then he started the motor of the car. Purring softly, the big machine rolled toward the nearest corner.
From a distance came the whistle of a locomotive, a banshee wail that sounded eerie in the darkness of the countryside. The Shadow’s laugh came as a low, creepy challenge, whispered from unseen lips.
Motor throbbed as the big car opened up. The Shadow swung into a through route that would lead him to the Skyway; thence into New York. Tully Kelk had arrived ahead of The Shadow in the race to Droverton; but the return trip would produce a different result.
Starting ahead of the train, The Shadow had the edge. He was familiar with the name of Tilton. It was one identified with Treblaw. For Stanton Treblaw and Silas Tilton, fellow collectors of rarities, had been friends.
The aftermath of murder had become a new objective: the residence of Silas Tilton, in Manhattan. The Shadow, like Kelk and Wickroft, had chosen Tilton’s as his goal. He would be there and ready before the other two arrived.
CHAPTER IX
THE STAGE SETS
A TAXI stopped before an antiquated brownstone house. A tall passenger stepped forth, spoke to the driver and then turned toward the old building. The cab pulled further down the street.
A street lamp revealed the arrival’s face. Hawkish, almost mask-like, it was the same countenance that The Shadow had worn on his visit to the Hotel Goliath.
The Shadow had arrived at the home of Silas Tilton. Ascending the steps, he rang the doorbell. A husky servant responded. The Shadow announced himself as Mr. Lamont Cranston. The servant ushered him into a hallway.
On the right was a vacant, darkened parlor, its gloom increased by heavy curtains that hung in the wide doorway. The servant had gone toward the rear of the house, evidently to a private sitting room where Tilton bided his time.
“Mr. Lamont Cranston?” The Shadow heard the question in a quavering voice from beyond the hall. “Tell him to come in to see me. At once, Perkins.”
That voice was evidently Tilton’s. Perkins reappeared immediately, bowed and conducted the tall visitor to the sitting room. As he crossed the threshold, The Shadow found himself faced by a wizened, stoop-shouldered man.
Beady eyes glimmered through thick spectacles as Silas Tilton thrust out a claw-like hand to his visitor. Waving his guest to a chair, Tilton began to speak in a friendly quaver.
“This is indeed a pleasure,” said the old man. “It is a long time since I have seen you, Mr. Cranston. Well do I remember the long discussion that we once held on the subject of the Westcar Papyrus.”
“And its translation,” smiled The Shadow, “with the reference to King Khufu.”
“One of the most interesting of all existing papyri. A most illuminating manuscript, in my opinion. I regard it as one of the prize possessions in the British Museum.”
“All types of manuscripts interest you, Mr. Tilton. Have you increased your collection recently?”
“No, Mr. Cranston. But I believe that I may make some additions shortly. Perhaps I may be asked to make an offer for the collection of my unfortunate friend Treblaw.”
“Stanton Treblaw? The man who was murdered last night?”
“The same. I suppose you read about his death in the newspapers. Poor Treblaw. He stopped in here to see me yesterday. Unfortunately, I was out.”
Tilton paused to remove his spectacles and wipe them; then, in his quaver, he resumed:
“I had some manuscripts that belonged to Treblaw. They were in a box in my safe. He came here to obtain them.”
“And was forced to leave them?”
“No. Perkins had the combination; he opened the safe for Treblaw.”
“And Treblaw took the manuscripts?”
“Yes. He remarked to Perkins that they were of little value. But for that chance statement, I would have informed the police concerning them. Doubtless they were stolen by the rogues who murdered Treblaw.”
“What were the manuscripts?”
“I do not know. That is why my information would be of no value to the law. I dislike notoriety, Mr. Cranston; and I could see no purpose in mentioning that Treblaw had been here.”
PERKINS appeared as Tilton concluded this statement. He came with the announcement that Mr. Wickroft was calling. Tilton did not recognize the name. Perkins added that Wickroft was Treblaw’s secretary.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Tilton. “That is true, Treblaw did have a secretary; but I had forgotten the chap’s name. Show him in, Perkins.” Then, as he saw his present guest rising, Tilton added. “What? You are leaving, Mr. Cranston?”
“I just happened to be riding by,” returned The Shadow. “I dropped in to pay my respects; and to express the wish that we might meet again.”
“Certainly,” quavered Tilton. “You are always welcome, Mr. Cranston. It has been good to see you. Come again.”
Wickroft entered. Tilton shook hands with him; then introduced the arrival to Cranston.
The Shadow bowed and departed, leaving the two together. Perkins ushered him to the door. The Shadow turned the knob himself; as he opened the door, he dropped his hand.
Fingers pressed a wedge-shaped object into the latch. The action was unnoticed by Perkins. A smile showed on thin lips as The Shadow went down the steps and heard the door close behind him. He strolled along to the parked cab and entered it in silent fashion.
From a bag on the floor of the cab, The Shadow removed black garments. He slipped a cloak over head and shoulders, added the slouch hat to his head, then whispered:
“Report.”
Moe Shrevnitz started. Sitting behind the wheel, he had not noticed The Shadow’s arrival. Then, recovering from his surprise, the taxi driver leaned close to the window and spoke in cautious tone.
“One guy went in,” he stated. “Then another sneaked in after him. The first fellow must have opened the door for him.”
The Shadow understood. While Perkins had gone to announce Wickroft, the pale-faced man had admitted Kelk. The latter must have chosen the empty parlor for a temporary hiding place. There was a thin door between Tilton’s parlor and the sitting room; Kelk could be listening there.
“Report received,” whispered The Shadow. “Instructions.”
“Ready,” declared Moe.
“Signal Marsland and Hawkeye when they arrive,” ordered The Shadow. “Tell them to inspect about the house. Stand by for emergency.”
“I’ve got it,” acknowledged Moe.
The Shadow glided from the cab. He became a phantom shape as he progressed toward the house that he had so recently left in the guise of Cranston. Flattened against the front door, The Shadow stood invisible. He worked at the knob.