The object that Hawthorne Crayle had taken from the door was a yellow envelope. The old man opened it and fished out a telegram. He scanned the lines and uttered a gleeful chuckle.
Crayle dragged out a dilapidated suitcase and opened it. He fumbled with the combination of a safe, opened the metal door and brought out two small Buddhas of gold. He packed them in the suitcase, closed the door of the safe and left the office, taking the grip with him.
As soon as Crayle’s footsteps had ceased to echo from the stairway, The Shadow again appeared. His firm hand applied a metal instrument to the door. The spring lock gave. The Shadow entered Crayle’s office.
The light that came from the window revealed a most amazing sight. The Shadow, vague though he had been in the hallway, was not cloaked in his garb of black. He was wearing a tawdry overcoat and battered hat, both of a dark color; his countenance was in plain view.
Yet no one who had seen that face could possibly have gained a key to The Shadow’s true identity. In every feature, The Shadow’s visage was the exact counterpart of Hawthorne Crayle, the old curio dealer who had so recently left the office.
REMOVING his hat and coat, this duplicate of Hawthorne Crayle began to busy himself about the office. He was familiar with the place, and in every action he was characteristic of the old curio dealer.
The yellow telegram was lying where Crayle had left it. The false Crayle picked it up and chuckled in the old man’s fashion as he read the message. The telegram was from a wealthy man in Cincinnati, asking Crayle to come at once and bring along the two valuable Buddhas that he owned.
Hawthorne Crayle would never know what had inspired that sale. The Cincinnati collector had received a wire describing the gold Buddhas. The message had been sent him by The Shadow, under a special name. The collector had acted as The Shadow had expected.
There was a telephone in Crayle’s office. The false Crayle picked it up and dialed a number. He chuckled as he waited for the reply. When it came, the false Crayle talked in a crackly voice:
“Mr. Terry Barliss?” he questioned. “This is Hawthorne Crayle… I once knew your uncle… Yes, yes, I am very sorry to have learned of his death. I saw the obituary in the newspaper.”
A pause while the pretended Crayle listened. Then, in loquacious fashion, he began again:
“I am calling, Mr. Barliss, because of something your uncle once told me. I am a curio dealer… Yes… Your uncle had a manuscript… Yes, that was it… A collection of original ballads by Francois Villon… What? You think that it is spurious?… Certainly. I should be glad to give you my opinion… This is surprising, Mr. Barliss… Yes… At your home… I shall come there this afternoon.”
More chuckles as the pretended Crayle hung up the receiver. Time drifted by while he waited. Noon was approaching. Listening behind the little counter where he stood, The Shadow heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
The approaching person was coming to the curio dealer’s office. The visitor turned out to be Harry Vincent. The Shadow, playing the part of Hawthorne Crayle, looked inquisitively toward this man whom he did not seem to recognize.
“My name is Vincent,” announced Harry, in an affable tone. “I am somewhat interested in curios. I thought that I would drop in to see your place.”
“You are welcome,” returned the old man, “but you have arrived just before I am leaving. I have an important appointment to keep; all that I lack is the required transportation.”
“I have my car,” responded Harry, remembering that Mann had instructed him to perform any service that Hawthorne Crayle might ask of him.
“Ah!” exclaimed the old man. “That would indeed be useful. I should not care, however, to impose upon you, Mr. Vincent.”
“No trouble at all,” interposed Harry. “I have nothing to do this afternoon. If I can be of service to you—”
“You can,” came the crackly reply. “What is more, Mr. Vincent, if you are interested in unusual items that attract collectors, I may be able to show you one where I am going. An original manuscript of Francois Villon — at least that is what it was supposed to be. Now, I am informed, it may be spurious.”
Harry Vincent caught the gleam of sharp eyes. Harry feigned interest. He nodded to indicate that there was nothing he would like to see so much as a Villon manuscript.
“Let us go,” decided the pretended Hawthorne Crayle. “I have promised Mr. Barliss that I will be there early this afternoon. There is no time like the present. He is living uptown. I am glad that you have a car; I do not care for taxicabs.”
“We will have to take a cab to the garage.”
“Is it far?”
“Only a few blocks.”
“We can walk then.”
THE false Hawthorne Crayle donned hat and overcoat. He pointed to the telegram that lay upon his counter and chuckled as he did so.
“A man in Cincinnati wants to buy my gold Buddhas,” he remarked. “I must start there today — after I have called on Mr. Barliss. Let us go, Mr. Vincent” — shaky hands were rubbing together — “because this is a very, very busy day for me.”
Harry Vincent was perplexed as he accompanied the old man down the dingy stairs. He heard the crackly voice of Hawthorne Crayle continuing in loquacious fashion. The old man was talking about his golden Buddhas, about curios in general and particularly about the Villon manuscript.
It occurred to Harry that Hawthorne Crayle must know people in many walks of life. As they went along the street toward the garage, Harry became more puzzled.
Did The Shadow know that Crayle had intended to go to Cincinnati? Did The Shadow know that Crayle had an appointment to call on a man named Barliss?
Whatever the answer, Harry was at least performing his appointed duty. As an agent of The Shadow, it was his policy to obey every order from his mysterious chief. He had been told, through Rutledge Mann, to play in with any wish of Crayle’s. Harry was following instructions.
They reached the garage. Harry obtained his coupe. He and his companion entered the car. As they swung out to the avenue, a hand gripped Harry’s arm and a crackly voice requested him not to drive too fast.
Harry Vincent nodded. He smiled as he shot a glance at the withered face of his curious companion. He drove the car at an easy pace, wondering if he were traveling to an important destination or merely following a blind lead.
Hawthorne Crayle continued his crackly conversation. The smile still remained on Harry Vincent’s lips. It would have changed to a look of amazement had Harry known the true identity of his talkative companion.
Not for one instant did The Shadow’s agent suspect that the rider beside him was The Shadow himself!
CHAPTER V
UNSEEN STRATEGY
THE old brownstone house where Terry Barliss lived seemed different by the light of day. The sinister aspect of the side street had vanished. In its place was a quiet but decadent neighborhood.
When Harry Vincent pulled his coupe to the curb, he felt positive that he was pursuing a useless course. Harry decided that The Shadow’s plan had gone awry. Nevertheless, it was his job to follow instructions as given.
Harry glanced at the stoop-shouldered figure beside him. Crablike, old Hawthorne Crayle was preparing to step from the coupe. Harry was afraid the old curio dealer would fall. He reached out a hand to help him; but Crayle shook it off and managed to gain the sidewalk.
Harry and his companion were admitted to the house. The solemn servant who opened the door ushered them into the living room. A few minutes later, Terry Barliss appeared, carrying a book under his arm.