“Sorry news, that. Jove! I wish I had chanced to arrive before the poor old chap made the mistake he did. I thought there would be trouble behind this bally Signet business.”
“This Signet business?” questioned Weston.
“Yes,” returned Jurling. “Those letters that Treblaw received, I suppose you have them? The originals, signed by a blighter calling himself ‘Signet’?”
“This is news to us, Mr. Jurling,” put in Cardona. “We’ve been looking for clues to Treblaw’s death. But we’ve struck none.”
“My word! You know nothing of the Signet correspondence?”
“Not a thing.”
“I have copies down at my hotel. I should have brought them with me. Carbon sheets, of course, that Treblaw forwarded to us. Also copies of our correspondence with the old fellow. With Treblaw, you understand.”
“Tell us about these letters,” queried Weston. “Who is Signet? And what has Burson, Limited, to do with Stanton Treblaw?”
“Suppose I sketch it for you,” decided Jurling, poising himself upon a table. “The whole affair is really a simple one. It appears that Stanton Treblaw owned a manuscript that was the authentic work of Benvenuto Cellini, the celebrated Italian goldsmith.”
“Listen to this, Cranston,” said Weston, turning to The Shadow. “The break has come. Continue, Mr. Jurling.”
“THE manuscript,” stated Jurling, “referred to certain works of Cellini. For instance, the twelve silver statues that he was supposed to have made for the King of France. In his autobiography, Cellini mentioned that he completed but one of these. In the manuscript held by Treblaw, he states that he finished the other eleven.”
“You mean,” questioned Weston, “that Treblaw’s manuscript was virtually an unpublished appendix to Cellini’s autobiography?”
“Precisely,” declared Jurling. “It was an authentic manuscript and it contained descriptions of other items that the goldsmith had completed.”
“And the manuscript was of great value?”
“Of some value,” returned Jurling, “as a manuscript alone. But you may picture for yourself how much that manuscript might have been worth to someone who chanced to discover the objects mentioned in it.”
“Like the silver statues?” queried Weston.
“Exactly,” replied Jurling. “Objects, which if pronounced genuine, would be worth a quarter million in English pounds — the equivalent of more than a million dollars in American money!”
There was emphasis in Jurling’s pause. The smile on the man’s face indicated that he was coming to a more important revelation. All listened intently. Weston and Cardona showed eagerness; Tilton stood amazed. The Shadow, holding his pose as Cranston, appeared curious.
“Someone,” resumed Jurling, “uncovered those remarkable treasures of Cellini’s. This person — we believe him to be an American of considerable means — wrote letters to Treblaw, offering to purchase the Cellini manuscript.
“Treblaw saw what lay behind the offer. He communicated with Burson, Limited, asking us to investigate the matter. We learned that certain art treasures — of doubtful origin — had been sold for small sums in certain European cities. We could not learn the name of the buyer; but we believed him to be Signet.”
“Signet?” queried Weston. “Just who is Signet?”
“The chap that I have mentioned,” returned Jurling. “The unknown purchaser. He signed his letters to Treblaw with a daub of sealing wax, impressed with a crown signet.”
“And how much did he offer for the Cellini manuscript?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars, according to the copy of the last letter that Treblaw sent us. Perhaps he offered more later. But the point was this: the letters told Treblaw to come to the Hotel Goliath and to await Signet there. To place an advertisement in the New York Classic, that Signet would know that he was ready.”
“Call the Classic, Cardona,” ordered Weston. “Get that reporter Burke on the telephone. Tell him I want to talk to him.”
Cardona went to the telephone.
“MY assumption,” went on Jurling, “is that Treblaw received a new and better offer from this chap Signet. I believe that Treblaw intended to deliver the manuscript.”
“And was murdered instead,” inserted Weston, grimly. “Tell me, Jurling, do you think this fellow Signet could have been capable of the killing?”
“No,” admitted Jurling, “I do not. Yet I may be wrong, commissioner. In my opinion, if Signet had intended murder, he would have made a grand gesture to begin with, instead of trying to purchase the manuscript for the paltry five thousand dollars that he offered in his first letter.”
“How does that strike you, Cranston?” asked Weston.
“Quite logical,” agreed The Shadow. “Particularly in light of the raid here at Tilton’s.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“It shows the entrance of mob violence. Crooks in the game, rather than a man who is a bona fide purchaser of art treasures.”
“Jolly well put,” chimed in Jurling. “This chap Signet would have stolen the art treasures, had he been a scoundrel. I believe some rogues must have caught wind of the Signet correspondence.”
“Wickroft!” exclaimed Weston.
“Wickroft?” questioned Jurling. “Treblaw’s secretary? The man slain here last night?”
“Wickroft was in with the crooks,” explained the commissioner. “He proved that by trying to aid them in the brawl that took place here. Wickroft, dying, said something about his chief. But he was unable to give us the man’s name—”
Joe Cardona, meanwhile, had been growling at the telephone, at the same time trying to listen to what was being said. At last the detective had put the call through. He interrupted Weston.
“Burke’s on the wire,” said Joe. Weston took the telephone.
“Burke,” he declared, impressively, “this is Police Commissioner Weston. What I am about to tell you is a confidential matter. Do you understand?”
An affirmative reply must have come from the other end, for Weston proceeded.
“We are looking for an advertisement in a recent edition of the Classic…” Weston paused. “Yes… Probably in the personals… Addressed to Signet… That’s right; if you find it, bring it to me at once… No, not to my office. To the home of Silas Tilton.”
Completing the call, Weston swung to Jurling.
“I WANT to see those letters,” declared the commissioner. “The copies that you brought from London. We know who one of the crooks was, among these slain here last night. He was called Crawler Clane and we believe his pal, Duster Shomak, was the leader of the raiding mob.
“But we’re out to get the big shot, whoever he is. And if we can trace this man who calls himself Signet, we may get a new slant on the case. But how are we going to communicate with him?”
Jurling stroked his chin.
“I don’t see how Signet could have that manuscript,” he stated. “I was under the impression that it might be here, judging from the reports that I read in today’s journals.”
“It was here,” put in Tilton, “but Treblaw took it, the afternoon before he was killed.”
“Perhaps Signet has it then,” suggested Jurling. “Suppose we put another advertisement in the Classic — assuming, of course, that one has already appeared. Signet might snap the bait.”
“If he does not have the manuscript,” injected Weston.
“Precisely,” agreed Jurling. “And that would inform us of an important fact.”
“As well as giving us contact with Signet.”
“Contact.” Jurling smiled. “An excellent term, commissioner. I hope that you will agree that contact is best.”
“Instead of actual arrest?”