“Once he gets on the trail, he’ll be after you for murder. I can explain myself! I have an alibi for the night that Salwood was killed.”
“I don’t see how they can hook it on me,” protested Thibbel. “That knife wasn’t mine—”
“They don’t need complete proof,” interposed Hargate solemnly. “The fact that you were with the mobsters is sufficient to implicate you for murder. Cardona is a pretty wise detective, even though we know that he can slip. Your chief safety lies in the fact that he may be unable to prove that you were with Sooky’s mob. But if he finds out only that you made the arrangements beforehand, he will have to use clever tactics in order to get the evidence he needs.”
“You mean—”
“That he may put detectives watching you. That’s why I want you to keep away from any of the gangsters whom you know. You are too valuable in my present plans.”
THIBBEL made no comment. Hargate adopted a reflective growl, as he talked with this man who passed as his servant, but who evidently was his chief lieutenant. Hargate’s colloquy was audible to The Shadow, at the open window.
“We wouldn’t have had to go after Salwood,” declared the millionaire, “if he hadn’t double-crossed us. I wanted what was mine. I saw the way to get it. I advised you to go alone. You wanted companions. You saw the trouble they caused.”
“It wasn’t my fault—”
“Let’s forget that angle of it. Salwood is dead. That ends his part. He double-crossed me once; he was ready to tell all that he knew about me. That would not have been damaging, for I could claim the whole thing as a legitimate transaction.
“Nevertheless, we haven’t finished. I’m going through with all that I have planned. We’re going to use careful methods, and we can do it now that Salwood is out of the picture. Eli Galban thinks that he is mighty safe in that out-of-the-way house of his. He’s going to learn that he’s wrong.”
“I don’t think it will take us long,” declared Thibbel. “Galban’s place is a tough one to crack—”
“But we intend to go about it right. That’s settled. We may have trouble there, but it will finish matters the way we want it. We must be careful, however, not to have any one find out any of our plans. That applies particularly to Cardona; it also applies to all others.”
“Who, for instance?”
“Young Barliss. He brought Cardona here. I don’t want to be questioned until we have finished our work. I don’t think that Cardona suspects anything as yet; but young Barliss—”
Hargate broke off as a telephone rang upon his desk. It was an inside wire, used for communication within the house, for Hargate pressed an answering connection on his desk before he lifted the receiver.
“What’s that?” he questioned sharply. The Shadow could see the scowl on his face. “He is, eh? All right, Tompkins…Yes, tell him I’ll see him…Yes, Thibbel will come down to bring him up.”
Hargate slammed the receiver. Thibbel, stepping away from the desk, could see a look of anger on the millionaire’s face. The servant’s countenance hardened. The Shadow could see it from the window.
“Young Barliss is downstairs,” growled Hargate. “He wants to see me.”
“You’re going to let him see you?”
“Certainly. He’s alone. Bring him up, Thibbel. I’ll handle him on my own account. I don’t think he knows anything. It won’t take me long to find out.”
Thibbel went through the front door of the room. He closed the barrier behind him. Wendel Hargate arose and paced the space behind the deck. The millionaire’s face was hardened; then a suave smile appeared beneath his large mustache.
Hargate was facing the window when he registered his new expression. All that the millionaire saw was blackness. The eyes of The Shadow had vanished. But as Hargate turned back toward his desk, the peering eyes again appeared.
The interview between Wendel Hargate and Terry Barliss was to take place in this very room. Alone, these two would match their wits: Terry, with a quest to gain; Hargate, with facts to conceal.
Neither would know that a third person would be present during their discussion. Neither would suspect the presence of The Shadow. The Shadow knew Terry’s theory. The Shadow had heard Hargate’s talk with Thibbel.
A challenge was impending. The Shadow would be ready when it broke! His spectral form was looming, almost within the window. There was no weapon in The Shadow’s grasp; instead, his right hand, ungloved, rested just within the fold of the black cloak.
The coming encounter was not of The Shadow’s making. He had responded to the need of circumstances. This meeting was a forced step in The Shadow’s plan to reach the master crook whose mandates Compton Salwood had obeyed until his death.
The Shadow was in readiness for the events that were to come.
CHAPTER XVI
THE STROKE OF CHANCE
WENDEL HARGATE’S eyes were upon the door of his study. The millionaire was awaiting the arrival of his visitor. The door opened. Terry Barliss entered alone.
Hargate received Terry quietly. The millionaire’s face was suave — almost perplexed in its feigned expression. Hargate extended a hand in welcome and invited Terry to a seat beside the desk.
Taking his own chair, Hargate eyed his visitor and opened the interview with a natural question.
“Have you come here,” he asked, “to discuss the death of Compton Salwood?”
“I have,” returned Terry.
“It was most unfortunate,” observed Salwood.
“The man was a crook,” said Terry. “I feel no regret because he has died.”
“I do.” Hargate’s tone was emphatic. “It means considerable in my affairs. I had hopes of regaining the stolen Villon manuscript. Now that Salwood is branded as the thief, I should prefer that he was still alive.”
“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Terry. “After all, I have suffered a loss equal to yours. More so, perhaps, because my manuscript represented the bulk of my uncle’s estate.”
Wendel Hargate had settled back into his chair. His hands were folded under his chin. His face was set as he studied Terry Barliss.
“Your expression of loss,” remarked the millionaire, “is of somewhat doubtful basis. Perhaps, Barliss, you are pursuing a useless quest.”
“How?”
“By seeking an imaginary possession.”
“You mean—”
“That you have no definite evidence that your manuscript was ever stolen.”
The cold challenge brought an angry sparkle to Terry’s eyes. Hargate appeared unperturbed; yet he did not fail to notice Terry’s look.
“Barliss,” declared Hargate, “you are working on a false hope. You are trying to regain a possession which is not yours. There could not be two bona fide copies of Villon’s Les Rondeaux de Paris. One must be false. That is evident.”
“So long as there is one,” rejoined Terry, “I expect to gain it. I am willing to take my uncle’s word that it is mine.”
“Perhaps,” said Hargate dryly. “But just how far will your claim go? Let us suppose that the manuscript is recovered. How will you manage to identify it?”
“Wait until that time arrives.”
“I intend to do so. Then I shall produce witnesses to prove that the manuscript is mine. Remember, Barliss, I have actually owned the Villon manuscript, while you have never seen it.”
THE cold tone aroused Terry’s ire. The young man threw away all discretion. He stared at Wendel Hargate and met the millionaire’s challenge with an angry glare.
“My hands are clean,” asserted Terry. “Remember that, Hargate!”
“I am speaking of a point at law,” came the response. “I insist — and I have the proof — that the Villon manuscript belongs to me. Nevertheless, I am willing to make you a fair deal.”