“You need not worry,” interposed Salwood emphatically. “I make provision for all such matters. I have decorated such rooms before. I have rearranged complete libraries. Such work is done under my own supervision. I take care that nothing is misplaced. I understand the feelings of collectors.”
“You are one yourself?”
“Slightly.” Salwood smiled. “Postage stamps are my particular hobby. I have also gone in a bit for rare coins. I find the stamps more interesting, however.”
Salwood picked up some envelopes as he spoke. He sorted them and showed three to Cranston.
“I have not opened these as yet,” said the interior decorator. “They were here when I returned. Stamps on approval from dealers.”
“Curios are my specialty,” smiled Cranston. “Of course, I have some rare books also. I regard them more as curios. They are unique—”
A momentary flicker of interest showed in Salwood’s face. It faded quickly. The interior decorator presented the impression that he knew very little concerning book collections.
“Suppose,” suggested Cranston, “that you dine with me at the Cobalt Club? I can tell you then exactly how my house is laid out. A few days from now, you can come out to my home.”
“Excellent,” agreed Salwood. “I shall be pleased to accept your invitation, Mr. Cranston.”
“We can start there now.”
“Very well. Can you allow me just a few moments to glance through these letters?”
“Certainly.”
Salwood ripped open envelopes, spread out letters and looked at them hurriedly. He followed by opening the envelopes that contained the postage stamps. His glances here were quick, until he opened the final envelope. He paused to study the rows of stamps.
His lips moved slightly; then formed a forced smile. Salwood looked up to see Cranston quietly watching him.
“My hobby caught me for a moment,” remarked Salwood. “These can wait until tomorrow. I shall enjoy going over them then.”
He replaced the sheets in their envelopes, thrust the containers in a desk drawer and locked it. The office had two doors. Salwood made sure that the rear one was locked; then he walked out with Cranston, locking the front door behind him.
SALWOOD spoke to the clerk who was closing shop. While they talked for a few brief moments, Cranston’s eyes roved toward the side windows of the larger room. The place was small, more like a consultation room than a shop. It was well furnished, but had no items on display. Salwood noted Cranston’s glances. He laughed as he rejoined the millionaire and they went out together.
“Nothing of value in my place,” remarked Salwood. “Rather unusual for an interior decorating establishment. That’s because of my way of doing business. I am not a dealer in stock items. I am a consulting expert on interior decoration.”
“So I understand,” returned Cranston.
A taxicab was pulling to the curb. Cranston and Salwood entered. Cranston’s eyes took a last keen glance toward the front door of Salwood’s place of business.
There was significance in that glance. The very simplicity of Salwood’s shop made it well protected. Scarcely more than a ground floor office, it offered no attraction whatever to burglars.
As the taxicab rolled away, the thin smile showed on Lamont Cranston’s lips. Compton Salwood was talking about interior decorations. It was obvious that the man was building up a plan of a visit to Cranston’s home. He was talking about some night this week.
Little did Compton Salwood suppose that Lamont Cranston was thinking about a visit to the shop which they had just left. That would be a visit when Salwood was absent — a visit on this very night!
CHAPTER X
THE SHADOW RETURNS
TEN o’clock. The front of Compton Salwood’s place of business showed blackened windows that reflected the lights of the street. A drizzling rain had begun; a touch of the somber was apparent in this district near Fifth Avenue.
A string of automobiles rolled along the side street. Silence followed. Few walkers were abroad. The steady light of a street lamp showed the glistening surface of the sidewalk beneath it.
A patch of blackness flitted across the reflected spot of light. The blackness disappeared as it merged with the front of Salwood’s place. The patter of the rain seemed to suppress the presence of some invisible creature of the night.
There was a space at the side of Salwood’s shop. It was very dark there. The personage who entered was rendered entirely unseen. Then came a tiny glow, the circular gleam of a small flashlight. A disk of light showed upon the metal shutter of a window.
Muffled sounds followed — sounds that were completely lost by the dripping of the rain. An unseen hand was working on the shutter, prying it open with an expert touch. Only one person could be doing this job with such noiseless skill. That, alone, betokened the identity of the unseen individual. The Shadow had returned to Salwood’s shop.
The shutter opened. A cloak swished softly. The sash within went silently upward. The shutter swung shut without a sound. The tiny ray of light gleamed within the big room of Salwood’s business place.
The flashlight was heading toward a definite spot: the door to Salwood’s office. The illumination concentrated upon the lock. Here, at least, Salwood had protection. The lock was of modern pattern; the difficulty of opening it was apparent.
A black-gloved hand appeared within the sphere of light. A tiny, probing instrument of blackened metal showed between the fingers. The Shadow’s deftness was undelayed. The difficult lock clicked. The Shadow entered Salwood’s office and left the door almost closed behind him.
The drawers of Salwood’s desk, like both office doors, were well fitted with heavy locks. They yielded to The Shadow’s touch. The drawers came open. In a lower one, The Shadow discovered a small package. His deft fingers opened it.
The ray of the flashlight fell upon the title of a book. The Shadow’s laugh was a whispered one. Here was the answer to Salwood’s trip to Philadelphia. The interior decorator had returned with a priceless volume from some millionaire’s collection. Carefully, The Shadow replaced the wrappings.
In the next drawer, The Shadow discovered a filing box that contained cards. These appeared to be a list of customers who had dealt with Salwood.
Swiftly, while one hand held the light, The Shadow used the other to turn the cards. The data dealt with interior decorations. Some cards were marked completed.
The Shadow’s swift hand recorded these names. A low laugh sounded as The Shadow saw the name of Shattuck Barliss. Then came a more sinister tone as Wendel Hargate appeared upon the list.
WELL did The Shadow know the real occupation in which Compton Salwood was engaged. The interior decorator had been rifling valuable collections of books and manuscripts. The theft of the Villon manuscript belonging to Shattuck Barliss had been one of his most recent outrages.
What of Hargate’s manuscript? There could not be two copies of Villon’s unique work. Did The Shadow know the answer to this problem? His soft laugh indicated understanding; at the same time, it carried a note of speculation. Among the carded names that formed Compton Salwood’s list of victims, that of Wendel Hargate occupied a peculiar place.
The Shadow came to the top drawer of the desk. There was something in his action that indicated this to be the most important. There was a reflective pause as The Shadow held his hand.
There had been distinct nervousness in Salwood’s manner from the time when he had placed letters and sheets of postage stamps within that drawer. The nervousness had been apparent while Salwood had dined at the Cobalt Club. Salwood had covered it well; yet The Shadow had observed that something was troubling the man.