“Wendel Hargate,” returned Terry. “That was the name. But Galban saw his manuscript and pronounced it a fake like mine.”
“I know,” agreed Harry, “but it might mean something just the same. If Hargate would show you his manuscript, we could compare it with yours.”
“I’m pretty well through with the proposition,” declared Terry sourly. “I’m sick of this talk about manuscripts. Let someone else worry about it.”
“Who, for instance?”
The question puzzled Terry for a moment; then a smile showed itself on the young man’s features.
“You didn’t meet that detective who was up at the house, did you?” quizzed Terry.
Harry shook his head.
“A fellow named Cardona,” Terry resumed. “He seemed sort of sore because we sent for him. He seemed to have the idea that he couldn’t trace anything that couldn’t be identified.”
“Good logic,” remarked Harry.
“Well,” said Terry, “I’ll give him the chance he wants. Let’s call him up and tell him that Wendel Hargate is supposed to have a genuine Villon manuscript with the Fifth Ballad—”
“But Galban said it was a fake—”
“Hargate apparently thinks it is a real one. I’m going to call Cardona and put him on the job.”
Chuckling, Terry went to a telephone. He returned and motioned to Harry to accompany him. The two left the restaurant and on the way Terry explained that he had talked to Cardona. The detective was coming out to the house and would go with them to Hargate’s.
CARDONA arrived shortly after Harry and Terry had reached the brownstone house. Terry Barliss produced his forged manuscript. The trio left in a taxicab.
They arrived at the pretentious home of Wendel Hargate. Like the house that Shattuck Barliss had willed to Terry, this was an old New York residence, but it was larger than Terry’s house and stood alone in an apartment neighborhood.
Joe Cardona had quickly responded to Terry’s suggestion of a visit. On the way in the cab, Terry had recounted the events of the interview with Eli Galban, at Houlton, New Jersey. At Hargate’s home, Cardona became the spokesman as soon as the door was answered. He announced himself as a detective and demanded to see Wendel Hargate.
Cardona and his companions were ushered into a study. A big, mustached man was seated behind a desk. He looked up with an annoyed air when he saw the three who had entered.
“What is the meaning of this?” he quibbled. “Which one of you is the detective?”
“I am,” replied Cardona. “We want to talk with you about an old manuscript — they call it a Villon manuscript.”
Hargate scowled. He evidently did not relish this visit. Before Cardona could insert another remark, Terry Barliss spoke. He introduced himself and noted immediately that Hargate recognized the name of Shattuck Barliss. Briefly, Terry explained all that had happened.
“You have your manuscript there?” questioned Hargate.
Terry nodded.
“Let me see it,” requested the millionaire.
Terry offered the manuscript. Hargate opened it and studied the parchment pages. When he came to the last one, he shook his head.
“I’m not much on forgeries,” he asserted, “but I can tell you right away that this manuscript does not contain the Fifth Ballad.”
“Yours does?”
“Certainly.”
“Could we see it?”
Hargate became harsh. He glowered at the visitors and shook his head.
“There’s no purpose in that,” he snorted. “Your manuscript is a fake. Mine is genuine; the only one of its kind in existence. Your uncle was deluded — that’s all.”
“Wait a moment,” interposed Joe Cardona. “We want to get somewhere, Mr. Hargate. It’s my job to locate a stolen manuscript—”
“I didn’t steal the one I have,” broke in Hargate, sharply.
“No accusation, Mr. Hargate.” Cardona was emphatic. “I want to see a genuine manuscript — if you have one — so I can conduct a police investigation.”
Stolidly, Hargate pressed a button on his desk. A minute later, a man appeared. He was a powerful, hard-faced fellow, who looked like a ruffian more than a millionaire’s servant.
“I’ll show you my Villon manuscript,” challenged Hargate. “I purchased it from the owner. It is unique. You talk of a stolen manuscript. I don’t see how such a one could exist.”
The millionaire paused and turned to the servant.
“Thibbel,” ordered Hargate, in a bluff, overbearing tone, “open the library. Turn on the lights. We are coming in there. Let me know when the room is ready.”
THIBBEL took the large key that Hargate gave him. He went through a side door of the study. Ten silent minutes elapsed before his return. When he came back to announce that the library was open, Hargate led the visitors through the door and up a small, winding stairway.
They entered an open room; its walls were lined with shelves fronted by glass panels. Books in great number were on display. The room had two narrow windows; both were barred. This third-floor library was a safe and secluded spot that had a single entrance.
Harry Vincent noted a freshness about the place. He was taking in every detail, for this visit had been ordered by The Shadow. Evidently Hargate’s library had just been redecorated.
“I’m doing you a favor,” growled Hargate, in a reluctant tone. “So far as I am concerned, this room is a vault. I don’t go browsing around among my rare books, opening them for every one. I keep my volumes intact.”
He opened a book case as he spoke and picked a volume from a shelf. The binding of the book, its appearance in every detail, was identical with the forged Villon manuscript that Terry Barliss carried.
“Open your book,” ordered Hargate. Terry complied. Hargate did the same with his. Both volumes showed identical title pages, inscribed on parchment. Page by page, Terry and Hargate went through their individual books. To the unpracticed eyes that viewed them, the manuscripts were the same. At last Hargate called for a stop.
“Here’s the difference,” he asserted. “This makes my manuscript the genuine, yours the false. This is the Fifth Ballad you have talked about. Turn over your page.”
Terry did as told. The next page showed blank. With a short laugh, Hargate turned the pages of his manuscript, holding the book so all could see. Then came consternation; the smile faded from Hargate’s lips.
The millionaire’s manuscript, like the one held by Terry Barliss, showed a blank page where the Fifth Ballad should have begun. A cry of anger blurted from Wendel Hargate’s throat.
“A fake!” he shouted. “A fake — like this other one!”
Furiously, Hargate threw his manuscript to the floor. He leaped to the book case and pawed over volumes there. Then, with glaring ferocity, he turned to the astonished men about him.
“This is robbery!” he roared. “You think that you have been robbed; I know that I have been robbed! This book has been substituted for the one I owned. My genuine Villon manuscript has been stolen!”
CHAPTER IX
THE INTERIOR DECORATOR
THE SHADOW was in his sanctum. The blue light gleamed while deft fingers opened envelopes that contained clippings and coded reports. The girasol sparkled with a mystic spell.
The clippings were brief. They stated, in short items, that a valuable manuscript had been stolen from the home of Wendel Hargate. The paragraphs were lacking in detail.
The reason was found in the first report that The Shadow inspected. It came from Harry Vincent. In careful detail, The Shadow’s agent had described the events at Wendel Hargate’s. Most important, however, was the aftermath that had followed Hargate’s recognition of the fact that his manuscript was missing.