“Dicks,” muttered Moe. “I’d bet five to one on it.”
Together, the new pair entered the Hotel Goliath. Moe Shrevnitz saw a vacant space in the hack stand and edged the cab into it. Might as well be ready here, even though his regular job was ended.
For Moe, as an agent of The Shadow, was trained to be observant and to use good judgment when on his own. Moe had a hunch that The Shadow had entered the Goliath ahead of Kelk. That seemed the logical answer to the order that had called for a delay.
Moe counted. The Shadow, Kelk, Cardona and another; two dicks beside. Plenty. And maybe there were others also; men who might have arrived ahead. Trouble was brewing, as Moe Shrevnitz saw it.
Yet the taxi driver wore a canny smile as he waited outside the Hotel Goliath. Trouble and The Shadow; not trouble for The Shadow. Such was Moe’s opinion, based upon past experience. For The Shadow, when trouble bobbed his way, had the ability to let it fall upon those who rightfully deserved it.
CHAPTER XVIII
TABLES TURN
MONTAGUE VERNE was seated in the living room of his little suite. Attired in dressing gown, calmly reading a book and smoking a cigarette, the man who had called himself Signet was apparently oblivious to brewing danger.
The big wardrobe trunk was locked. The door to the little bedroom was a trifle ajar. The door to the hall was locked. Verne seemed to be giving it no concern.
Someone rapped at the door. Verne arose and went to answer. He turned the knob. The door swung inward. Tully Kelk stepped into the living room and closed the door behind him. It did not latch; but neither Kelk nor Verne noticed that fact. The two men were too intent upon surveying each other.
From the moment of the meeting, sudden challenge was apparent. It was plain that the two men had never met. Yet each seemed ready for a struggle. It was Kelk who gave the first utterance: an ugly laugh.
Verne looked quizzical. Then, in a firm but tense voice, he demanded: “Just who are you?”
“My name is Kelk,” came the reply. “Tully Kelk. One you’ve never heard before.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” returned Verne. “My name is Montague Verne. My residence, London. I have been expecting a visitor. May I ask if you are the man?”
“Maybe.” Kelk’s retort was ugly. “That will develop after we have talked a while.”
The two men had reached the center of the living room. Verne, fingers dipped in dressing-gown pockets, was as quizzical of expression as before. Kelk, scowling, was holding his fists half clenched.
Neither noted the door to the bedroom. The barrier had moved a trifle. From it, keen eyes were watching — eyes that looked like blazing coals set in a background of absolute inkiness.
The Shadow had come in from the adjoining suite. His objective had been those rooms where Harry Vincent was keeping vigil. From the moment of his arrival, The Shadow had been ready to approach Verne’s living room.
He had heard Kelk’s rap. He had glided forward at the moment when Verne was answering the door. Spying Verne and Kelk intent, The Shadow remained, a silent witness to what appeared to be an impending conflict.
IT was Verne who picked up the broken trend of conversation. Extracting a cigarette from the pocket of his dressing gown, the dapper man struck a match and blew a puff of smoke in Kelk’s direction. Then he spoke, calmly.
“I presume,” he said, “that you have read the advertisement that I inserted in the Classic. You have arrived quite promptly, Mr. Kelk. Therefore, I suppose you understood the significance of the advertisement.”
“I understood it,” growled Kelk.
“May I ask then,” — Verne spoke in a mildly curious tone — “if you have brought the document that I expected?”
Kelk’s laugh was almost a snarl. Verne looked surprised.
“Come, Mr. Kelk,” he insisted. “Surely you knew that I expected you to bring that item — that we might discuss the price.”
“If you mean the Cellini manuscript,” returned Kelk, “you are wide in your guess that I want to sell it.”
“You wish to buy it then?”
“I intend to get it. From whoever has it. That’s why I’m here, Verne.”
Kelk’s eyes were glowering. His fists were tighter than before. It was plain that if he intended violence, he would use brute force alone. Taking one step toward Verne, Kelk rasped:
“Not only do I intend to get the manuscript. I have come to take it from the man who has it! From you!”
Verne drew his cigarette from his lips. He raised his brows in an expression of surprise.
“From me?” he questioned. He shook his head with a slight laugh. “My word, old man! Why do you suppose I placed that advertisement in the Classic? I put it there because I wanted the Cellini manuscript—”
“You tried the ad as a blind,” interrupted Kelk. “A game of bluff, to cover up the fact that you already had the manuscript. I saw through the bluff. That is why—”
KELK had been edging forward; he was almost jaw to jaw with Verne. Breaking his sentence, Kelk made a leap. His long arms shot upward; his hands sped for Verne’s throat.
But with Kelk’s spring, Verne acted also. Shifting swiftly backward, the dapper man snapped his right hand from his dressing gown pocket. A stub-nosed revolver glimmered from his fist.
A quick shot would have stopped Kelk. But Verne, twisting backward, did not fire. Then his opportunity was gone. Kelk, instead of stopping at sight of the weapon, came on with a fierce dive. His left hand caught Verne’s right wrist. Verne’s hand went upward.
Kelk, stronger of the pair, sent Verne reeling against the wardrobe trunk. He yanked Verne’s right arm down. The stubby barrel of the revolver cracked the top of the trunk as it arrived at the end of a swift sweep.
The gun bounced from Verne’s grasp. It went glistening through the air, bounded from the wall and scudded across the floor toward the outer door. Kelk made a twist to dive after it. That gave Verne opportunity.
Though smaller than his antagonist, Verne was wiry. He showed his pluck as he countered, coming back at Kelk with a fury that the invader had not anticipated. To The Shadow, watching, Verne seemed to climb straight for Kelk’s shoulders. With an upswing of his forearm, Verne caught Kelk’s chin.
Kelk staggered. Verne grappled. The two swayed back and forth, then lost their footing and rolled upon the floor. They struggled fiercely, but they fought fair, each man striving to win by straight combat.
The Shadow, watching, waited.
Somehow, The Shadow had expected a struggle of this sort from the moment that he had witnessed the beginning of the fray. He let the conflict continue; but his gloved hand, pressed against the doorknob, was opening the barrier in readiness for intervention.
Whoever won the fray would find The Shadow prepared to deal with him if occasion demanded such a course. Already the black-cloaked figure was looming in the half-opened doorway. But neither Kelk nor Verne caught sight of the spectral entrant.
Like wrestlers, they were struggling for new holds, Kelk’s strength offset by Verne’s elusiveness. For a dozen seconds the combatants were rigid, straining to the limit. Then came the break.
Verne broke Kelk’s grip and shot a quick fist for the tall man’s jaw. The blow was glancing. Kelk’s free hand caught Verne’s throat and gripped it. Verne, half risen from the floor, emitted a gasped gurgle. Kelk, with a twist, sent the dapper man sprawling. Before Verne could rise, Kelk was to his feet.
Right hand free, Kelk shot it to his coat pocket. Out flashed a revolver as Verne, on hands and knees, was crawling for his own gun. A rasp from Kelk. Verne stopped. Kelk, back to the outer door, was covering him.