“What else?”
“Nothing much,” returned Wickroft. “Only one thing: A letter from Burson. I didn’t get a chance to read it. Treblaw stuck it in his pocket and never gave it to me to file. But it wasn’t important. Just a reply to Treblaw’s last letter, when he paid their bill for investigation. They said they’d be glad to have further business from him. That’s all.”
AS Wickroft paused, a checking statement came across the wire. The voice at the other end was severe; almost accusing.
“You said that you did not see the Burson letter. Yet you have told me its contents.”
Wickroft’s face twitched. He had heard this sharp, checking tone before. It worried him.
“I didn’t explain it right, chief,” he protested, nervously. “Honestly, I didn’t see the letter — the Burson letter, I mean. It was the old man who read it; but he mentioned what was in it, see?”
Wickroft paused. Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. He was afraid that this cold-toned chief did not believe his statement. He wanted a response; he received silence instead.
“Did you hear me, chief?” queried Wickroft, anxiously. “You understand now, don’t you?”
“I understand.” The growled response was almost sarcastic. “Remember, though, what I expect from you.”
“I know, chief,” blurted Wickroft. “I’m playing straight. I know what happens to double-crossers. I’m on the level! Honestly! — on the level—”
“See that you keep that way,” came a growled admonition. The interruption made Wickroft quiver. “Go ahead. What else?”
“Nothing, chief,” responded Wickroft. “All I want to know is what I’m to do now. It’s all set for you to get those letters. They’re worth a million, Treblaw says, to the man who can use them. Like this Signet. But if you go after them, that leaves me here—”
“Remain where you are,” came the cold interruption. “You are safe. You know nothing. You will hear from me later.”
“All right, chief. I’ll play it through. But — but if—”
This time a click was the interruption. The man at the other end had terminated the call. Wickroft stood aghast; then, with shaking hand, he hung up the receiver.
SETTING the telephone on the table, Wickroft began to pace the room. Anxiety had replaced his satisfaction. His lips were moving as he mumbled to himself. But as he continued his solitary reasoning, the treacherous secretary began to regain his crafty smile.
“You are safe. You know nothing.”
Automatically, Wickroft repeated his chief’s assurance. The words, half aloud, gave him courage. After all, Wickroft’s position was a most tenable one.
The tool of a master crook, Wickroft had never met the chief who ruled him. Until some months ago, Wickroft had been a legitimate secretary, skilled at classifying collections.
Then had come a mysterious telephone call. An offer of easy money if he would play a crooked game. Wickroft had accepted it. Coming into the employ of Stanton Treblaw, he had been ready to aid in theft or robbery.
Treblaw’s collection of letters and manuscripts had proven of comparatively small value, so far as Wickroft could see. Then had come the messages from Signet.
Treblaw, taking Wickroft in his confidence, had spoken of other manuscripts — ones of high value — that the old man kept elsewhere than in this house. Signet wanted an old manuscript. One that had been written by Benvenuto Cellini; one of several such scripts that mentioned art treasures not discussed in Cellini’s famous autobiography.
Wickroft, responding to regular calls from the chief who had bribed him, was quick to pass along the information. While Treblaw dickered with Signet; while the old man had British investigators studying the European curio market, Wickroft had been keeping a supercrook posted on the game.
At last the payoff was due. Treblaw had decided to deliver. The old collector had gone to New York. There he would pick up the manuscript that Signet wanted; there he would negotiate with the would-be purchaser.
The game was out of Wickroft’s hands. The secretary chuckled as a frown erased itself from his brow. The chief was right. Wickroft, back here at Droverton, could pretend that he knew nothing. Even if the Signet messages came to light, along with the Burson correspondence, Wickroft could pretend that Treblaw had conducted these secretly. That would be a logical story; one that would pass muster.
Smugly, Wickroft smiled. His period of vigil had ended. His crooked chief would do the rest. The only cloud that formed upon Wickroft’s face was due to another thought. Wickroft was wondering how great his reward would be.
There was no link between himself and the master of crime. Did that mean that his chief — a man whom he had obeyed without meeting — might let him down when it came to a share of the spoils?
The idea troubled Wickroft for a few moments. Then he recalled payments that he had already received: Cash, in letters that had come to his old address in New York. He had been worth money then; surely he would be worth more, now that he had delivered the goods.
Besides that, Wickroft saw how he could make trouble for the master crook. Even without jeopardizing his own position. Suppose the deal went through — with Treblaw losing his thirty thousand dollar prize. Suppose the unknown crook dropped Wickroft cold. What then?
Wickroft smiled. He realized that he could trump up some story. Talk of bribery that he had not accepted. Hazy clues that would start the law on the trail of the master criminal. All the while, with no direct link between himself and the supercrook, Wickroft could play the part of a faithful secretary to Treblaw. A helping aid; not a traitor.
The smile broadened as Wickroft stopped beside a curtained window and peered through at brilliant sunshine which had supplanted the morning’s rain. He was confident that his criminal chief would deliver him his share. That would be the only wise policy.
Wickroft chuckled as he drew the curtains open. He turned off the electric light and returned to the filing table. Resuming work in the clear illumination of daylight, the traitor became methodical in his task. He could afford to wait; to continue his inconspicuous part while men of crime were dealing with Stanton Treblaw.
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW ENTERS
THE same rains that had deluged the town of Droverton had brought heavy damage to lowlying New Jersey areas. Cloudbursts had flooded valley towns and the New York newspapers were proclaiming the fact with large headlines.
In the office of the New York Classic, a young man was banging on a typewriter, writing a final story that summarized the destruction in the storm-swept districts. He finished with a string of asterisks across the bottom of the page; then yanked the paper from the machine and handed it to a copy boy.
That done, the young man picked up a newspaper that had just been left on his desk. It was the bulldog edition of the Classic, off the press five minutes ago. Settling back in his chair, he passed up the front page and began to look through other portions of the tabloid.
This young man was Clyde Burke, reporter for the Classic. The rewrite of the storm news had been given him as a last assignment for the midnight edition. With his work done, Clyde was more interested in a story that he had written during the afternoon.
That story dealt with crime. Clyde Burke was usually detailed as a police reporter. Crime interested him more than storms. There was a double reason for the fact. Clyde Burke was not only a reporter on the staff of the Classic. He was also an agent of The Shadow.
Clyde’s work carried him into the underworld. As a newspaper reporter, he was immune from the usual feuds of mobdom, so long as he minded his own business, which Clyde appeared to do. Secretly, however, the reporter kept tabs on crook movements and passed his findings along to The Shadow.