Finished with Signet, The Shadow took up the matter of the investigator. Stanton Treblaw had paid Burson, Limited, to look into the matter of recently purchased art treasures. The list that Burson had sent him corresponded, presumably, with items mentioned in the Cellini manuscript.
Dale Jurling had come to see Commissioner Weston; he had produced carbon copies of the letters between Treblaw and Burson. The final letter of the lot — corresponding to the one that Treblaw had read and later disposed of — was merely a brief “thank-you” note from Burson, Limited, to Treblaw. This fact was mentioned in Clyde Burke’s report.
That letter should have closed the Treblaw matter, so far as Burson, Limited, was concerned. Yet Dale Jurling had come to New York and was here in reference to the Signet matter. His ship, the Doranic, had left Liverpool prior to the murder of Stanton Treblaw.
In fact, Burson, Limited, had never received a copy of the last Signet letter, with its offer of thirty thousand dollars. The answer, then, as The Shadow saw it, was that the British investigating firm had suddenly decided that the matter was not closed.
It was not surprising that they had sent an investigator to New York. This was an unusual case, this Signet business. But it was odd that they should have sent their man without notifying Treblaw that he was coming. Briefly, the last carbon letter held by Jurling did not jibe with the circumstances.
Did Jurling suspect more than he had stated? It was probable. Jurling had dealt frankly with the police; but he had also pressed the point that Signet should be contacted, not arrested. Weston had agreed; Jurling was satisfied.
But to The Shadow, the existing circumstances offered new thoughts as he studied the investigation point of the new triangle. He believed that Jurling was holding back certain facts and would not announce them until Signet had been discovered. Again, The Shadow laughed.
LAST of all, The Shadow studied the criminal point of the triangle. The method of crime was obvious. Wickroft, planted at Treblaw’s, had chanced to learn of the Cellini manuscript that Signet wanted. He had informed his chief; Treblaw’s murder had been accomplished. Yet killers had not found the manuscript.
Until that time, the crime master had made no open move. But the failure to gain the manuscript had warranted new action. Close after Treblaw’s death, Tully Kelk had come boldly into the picture.
Kelk was certainly determined to get that manuscript. His daring proved it. Coming suddenly from cover, the sallow-faced man had pursued a speedy but dangerous course. He had entered Treblaw’s room shortly after the old collector had been murdered. He had gone directly to Treblaw’s house, to check on Wickroft. He had marched the secretary in to Tilton’s. He had remained there while mobsters raided; and had not fled until he had seen Wickroft dying on the floor.
This was a game that called for a superplotter. Kelk had exhibited those qualifications. At the same time, he had left too much to chance. His tendency to accept doubtful hazards was a paradoxical point.
To The Shadow, Kelk’s actions revealed a definite phase of the sallow man’s game. He could discern that Kelk was holding a trump card that he had not yet played. Kelk would be ready to use it in a pinch. Apparently, the man was a lone worker by inclination.
This insight into the ways of Tully Kelk gave The Shadow all he needed for the final point of the triangle. A white hand plucked up the paper from the table. The sheet crinkled as The Shadow crushed it. A laugh came from the darkness.
A pause. A new sheet came into view. Upon it, The Shadow wrote a name in ink. It was the baffling title: “Signet.” Beneath the name, The Shadow inscribed the outline of a crown.
Name and token faded. Again, The Shadow laughed. He had found two members of the important triangle: Kelk and Jurling. He wanted to discover the third. He knew that his quarry was somewhere in New York.
There was significance in The Shadow’s laugh as he thought of the third name. A paper rustled to the table. It was the guest list of the Hotel Goliath, which Clyde Burke had eventually forwarded for The Shadow’s records.
The Shadow began to cross out names. He eliminated many as he went down toward the bottom of the list. He stopped almost at the end of the column. There he read the name: “Montague Verne.”
This guest had registered from London, England. His room number was 1472. He had come to the Hotel Goliath the very day that Treblaw had registered there. Was there significance in the fact? The Shadow believed so.
For a final laugh whispered as an invisible hand clicked off the bluish light. Strange mockery filled the blackened room. Quivering echoes faded with the departing swish of The Shadow’s cloak.
A new day was due. Before it was ended, The Shadow would find the one man whom he wanted to complete the triangle that surrounded the affairs of dead Stanton Treblaw.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MEETING
LATE the next afternoon, a dapper man strolled into the lobby of the Hotel Goliath. He stopped at the desk, inquired for the key to Suite 1472 and asked if any mail or telephone calls had been received for Mr. Verne. The clerk’s reply was negative.
Montague Verne strolled aboard an elevator. Standing there, he appeared to be a middle-aged idler who was bored with life. Verne was difficult to place. He might have been an Englishman; or he might have been an American who had traveled extensively abroad.
His demeanor, however, showed him a man of the world. His face, rugged in outline, was drooping in its features. His profile, which showed as he turned toward the side of the elevator, possessed a definite bluntness.
The elevator traveled up to the fourteenth floor. Verne paused to obtain a drink of ice water after he had left the elevator. The faucet was close beside the elevators; as he drank, Verne noted a mail chute also. He pulled some picture post cards from his pocket and dropped them down the chute.
Verne strolled to 1472. He unlocked the door and stepped into the living room of a small suite. He closed the door behind him; then turned around and stopped in surprise.
He was facing a tall intruder who was standing in a corner of the room.
STARTLEMENT registered itself but momentarily on Verne’s face. Regaining his composure, Verne studied the personage before him. He saw a countenance that was impressive. The tall stranger had a hawk-like visage that maintained the solemn expression of a mask.
Verne calmly placed his hat upon a table. He pulled a tabloid newspaper from his pocket and laid it there also. Nonchalantly lighting a cigarette, he turned to the corner and asked: “Well, who are you!”
A faint smile showed on thin lips. The Shadow responded quietly.
“My name,” he stated, in an even tone, “is Lamont Cranston. Perhaps you have heard the name before.”
Verne’s eyes lighted momentarily. Then the dapper man shook his head.
“Can’t say that I have, old top,” he remarked. “Let me see. Cranston, you say. Lamont Cranston—”
“A friend of Silas Tilton.”
“Silas Tilton?”
A quiet laugh from The Shadow’s thin lips.
“Come, Verne” — it was the tone of Cranston — “you have read the newspapers. In fact, you have just laid a copy of the Classic on the table. I suppose you have read the advertisement that appeared in today’s edition. The one addressed to Signet. Do you intend to answer it?”
Verne looked chagrined. Then he shrugged his shoulders and formed a drooping smile.
“Yes, I’ve read the newspapers,” he admitted. “I know who you are, Cranston. You were mentioned as a guest at Tilton’s, who left just before trouble started there. But tell me: how did you guess that I was Signet?”