Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 019 - The Romanoff Jewels

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THE ROMANOFF JEWELS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A MILLIONAIRE ENTERTAINS
? CHAPTER II. ONE MAN MISSING
? CHAPTER III. THE DUNGEON OF DOOM
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER V. DEATH INTERVENES
? CHAPTER VI. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER VII. THE PLAN IS MADE
? CHAPTER VIII. MEN IN MOSCOW
? CHAPTER IX. SENOV STRIKES
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW ARRIVES
? CHAPTER XI. MOTKIN MEETS THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XII. MOTKIN MAKES A PROMISE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
? CHAPTER XIV. IN PARIS
? CHAPTER XV. THREE FACTIONS FIGHT
? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST SHOT
? CHAPTER XVII. ON THE GASCONNE
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE BATTLE AT SEA
? CHAPTER XIX. THE MAN WHO KNEW
? CHAPTER XX. ON THE SUBMARINE
? CHAPTER XXI. IN NEW YORK
? CHAPTER XXII. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW DECIDES
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE FINAL RECKONING
CHAPTER I. A MILLIONAIRE ENTERTAINS
As the huge limousine swung up the gravel drive and stopped beneath the porte-cochere of a large,
graystone mansion, it would have seemed to the casual observer that there was no one in the rear seat of
the car.
But the chauffeur opened the door as though he expected some one to get out.
"We are here, Mr. Cranston," he announced. "This is Mr. Waddell's home, sir."
Shadows in the back seat resolved themselves into a figure which moved languidly, as though aroused
from a reverie. The owner of the car arose in leisurely fashion, and stepped from the limousine.
"Very good, Stanley," he said to the chauffeur. "You made excellent time coming here. Be back by half
past eleven."
A footman was approaching from the door of the house. The chauffeur spoke to the attendant.
"This is Mr. Lamont Cranston," he said. "To see Mr. Waddell."
"Will you come with me, sir?" the footman asked Cranston with a bow. "Mr. Waddell was expecting
you, sir. I shall announce your arrival."
As the limousine pulled away, Lamont Cranston and the footman ascended the steps. Inside the door of
the sumptuous residence, the servant went ahead to announce the visitor.
Beneath the mellow glow of the hall lights, Lamont Cranston made an imposing figure. He had removed
his coat, and now stood attired in immaculate evening clothes. The somber black of his garments
accentuated the tallness of his stature. His figure was both imposing and ominous.
Lamont Cranston possessed a remarkable face. His features were cold-chiseled, firm, and masklike. His
deepset eyes sparkled keenly; they, alone, added animation to that inscrutable countenance. Motionless
as a statue, silent as a phantom, he seemed a veritable figure of mystery.
Yet stranger even than the form itself was the shadow that it cast. Stretched across the rug-covered floor
lay a long patch of darkness that commenced from the feet of the man and terminated in an elongated
silhouette— the profile of Lamont Cranston. The very atmosphere seemed charged with the eerie silence
of a seance room. It betokened the presence of the unknown.
A MAN appeared at the other end of the hall. Short and stout, with a rolling gait, he made a ridiculous
figure as he hurried across the floor. This was Tobias Waddell, the millionaire host, who was coming to
welcome his guest, Lamont Cranston.
"Glad to see you, Cranston," was Waddell's greeting. "Sorry you were held up. Come right along with
me—right along. Want you to meet my friends."
The tall visitor joined the millionaire, and the two returned by the path over which Waddell had come.
They entered a large reception room, where a dozen men and women were gathered. Waddell
introduced the new arrival.
It was obvious that Lamont Cranston had arrived too late for the function which had taken place that
evening. The party had reached an informal stage. So, after the introduction, Waddell and Cranston
stood aside and chatted.
Noting the way in which Cranston's steady gaze turned and centered upon different persons present,
Waddell spoke in an undertone, acquainting his friend with facts concerning those individuals in whom
Cranston seemed to display a passing interest.
"Marcus Holtmann," informed Waddell, as Cranston observed a short, sour-visaged man who was the
center of a small group. "Gave us an interesting talk to-night on Russia. Just came back from there, you
know.
"Engineering contracting—that is his line. Talked a lot about the Five Year Plan. Must have learned a
good bit over there—more than he tells -"
The speaker broke off as he saw Cranston watching a portly man who was listening to Holtmann.
"Parker Noyes is my attorney," remarked Waddell. "I believe you met him on your last visit here. Very
capable man, Noyes. It was he who introduced me to Holtmann."
As Cranston chanced to glance toward a corner of the room, Waddell nudged him and indicated a tall,
handsome man.
"Popular young chap," observed Waddell. "Met my daughter at Noyes' house some time ago, and has
come here frequently. Name is Frederick Froman. Very agreeable personality. Appears to have a lot of
money. Different from that fellow Tholbin."
With the mention of the second name, the stout millionaire directed Cranston's attention to a sallow-faced
young man who was standing beside the grand piano. Betty Waddell, the millionaire's daughter, was
seated on the piano bench. She and Tholbin were engaged in conversation.
"David Tholbin," mused Waddell. "Wish I knew more about him. He'll be proposing marriage to Betty,
first thing you know. He follows us too much when we travel. Seems to have some money—how much, I
don't know. Sort of an adventurer, I figure."
It was obvious that the millionaire judged men by their wealth. Lamont Cranston, himself a
multimillionaire, was a highly honored guest, gauged by Waddell's standard.
Without speaking or giving visible notice of his action, Cranston made a calm comparison of the two
young men whom Waddell had last indicated in the conversation.
The two formed a marked contrast. Froman, with light hair and complexion, possessed a frank face.
Tholbin, sallow and black-haired, appeared as a shrewd schemer.
Yet of the pair, Froman was the more dynamic. He was one of those men whose age is difficult to
determine. The firm set of his chin showed something of the mental force that lay behind.
FOUR men had been pointed out to Lamont Cranston. They were men of varied sorts. Marcus
Holtmann—a man of business; Parker Noyes—a sedate lawyer; Frederick Froman—a gentleman of
leisure; David Tholbin—a young adventurer. Their purposes in life were different. Chance, to-night, had
made them guests at the same social function.
That same chance had brought a fifth visitor in the person of Lamont Cranston. He was the one who
observed; and his keen, piercing eyes were ferreting hidden secrets.
With it all, Cranston possessed a remarkable aptitude for concealing his own actions. Not one of the four
sensed the interest that he was taking in them.
Strolling leisurely across the room, Lamont Cranston joined the group that was listening to Holtmann. The
sour-faced man was answering questions. His brief, terse phrases came to Cranston's ears.
"Five Year Plan—gigantic idea—yes, I spent six months in Moscow - vast natural resources in
Russia—wealth in back of it—many reports are based upon lack of authentic information -"
Another man had joined the group. The newcomer was Frederick Froman. He displayed a purely
passive interest in the discussion. He lighted a cigarette, roamed leisurely away, and returned. His second
approach took place as Marcus Holtmann was ending the discussion.
"Well, gentlemen," declared the man who had been to Russia, "I feel that I have talked enough for this
evening. I can only say that my experiences were interesting and enlightening. They proved to me that one
cannot judge conditions in Russia by a short visit only. Now that I am back here, I am more interested in
America. My stay in New York ends to-night."
"You are leaving for the Middle West?"
The question came from the lawyer Parker Noyes.
"For Chicago," replied Holtmann. "My train goes at midnight. I must leave here in ample time to stop at
the hotel on the way. I am staying at the Belmar."
"You will have to leave by eleven o'clock," observed Noyes.
Holtmann nodded.
The group broke up as the conversation ended. Only Lamont Cranston remained.
He smiled as Tobias Waddell approached him. He walked to the side of the room with the millionaire,
and the two sat down in chairs that were drawn side by side.
It was there that Parker Noyes joined them. The lawyer, grave and gray-haired, was a man of important
bearing. Both he and Cranston listened to Waddell's talk, but their eyes were not directed toward the
speaker.
Cranston, his clear eyes covering the whole scene, watched Frederick Froman as a footman entered and
delivered a message to the blond-haired man. Froman went from the room, evidently to answer a
telephone call.
Cranston's gaze shifted to Marcus Holtmann. Noyes, however, was observing another individual. He was
intent upon David Tholbin, who was still engaged in ardent conversation with Betty Waddell.
Froman returned. Cranston glanced at his watch. It showed ten minutes of eleven. Cranston turned to
Waddell.
"The telephone?" he questioned. "I have just recalled that I must call the Cobalt Club -"
The millionaire summoned the footman. Then, rising, Waddell conducted Cranston to the door of the
room, and indicated the direction. He instructed the servant to show Mr. Cranston the way. A few
minutes later, Cranston was alone in a small room, speaking into the mouthpiece of a desk telephone.
"Ready, Burbank?" he questioned.
Evidently the reply was an affirmative one, for Cranston continued with instructions.
"Belmar Hotel, eleven thirty," he declared. "Midnight train, Grand Central Station, destination Chicago.
Marsland to cover at hotel as ordered. Vincent to cover at station as ordered."
Lamont Cranston hung up the receiver. He stood motionless in the center of the room, his tall figure
producing a mammoth shadow. Then the splotch of blackness dwindled as he advanced to the door. A
few minutes later, Lamont Cranston was again seated beside Tobias Waddell.
JUST before eleven, Marcus Holtmann came over to say good-by to Tobias Waddell. He shook hands
with Cranston and Noyes; then made his departure.
No one seemed to express a noticeable interest in Holtmann's leaving. The man had stated that he must
leave before eleven; hence his departure was brisk and businesslike. Lamont Cranston observed that
fact. He turned his attention to the remaining guests.
Parker Noyes was still chatting with Tobias Waddell. Frederick Froman was seated in a corner, alone,
contentedly puffing a panatella. David Tholbin, apparently oblivious to everything, was engaged in earnest
conversation with the millionaire's daughter.
A few minutes before half past eleven, Tholbin approached Waddell to announce that he was going in to
New York. The millionaire received him rather gruffly, but Tholbin ignored the fact. Lamont Cranston,
however, spoke cordially:
"My car will be here shortly," he said. "I should be pleased to take you in to New York -"
"Thanks," returned Tholbin. "I have my own car outside. Always drive in and out, you know."
With that, he turned and headed for the hall. Cranston watched him, then turned his head to see
Frederick Froman standing close by. The light-haired man had approached while Tholbin was saying
good-by to Waddell.
"You are leaving soon, Mr. Cranston?" Froman's question came in a quiet, even voice.
"Yes," replied Cranston.
"I should appreciate the same invitation," declared Froman. "I do not have my car here to-night."
"I shall be glad to accommodate you," responded Cranston.
Almost immediately after he had spoken, the footman entered the room to announce that Mr. Cranston's
car had arrived. Cranston shook hands with Waddell and turned questioningly to Parker Noyes.
"You are going into the city?" he asked.
"No," replied the attorney. "Mr. Waddell has asked me to remain here overnight. Business, you know -"
"I understand."
Cranston shook hands with both Waddell and Noyes. Accompanied by Froman, he went to the
porte-cochere.
The chauffeur must have seen him, for the big limousine pulled up from the driveway. As its headlights
spotted the men by the door, Cranston's shadow formed a long, weirdly changing shape upon the drive.
Froman, chancing to glance downward, was fascinated by the strange, vague streak of blackness.
Then the limousine was beside them. All traces of the oddly shaped shadow had vanished. The two men
entered the door of the car. Soon the lights of Waddell's home were obscured by the huge hedges that
surrounded the millionaire's estate.
Little was said as the limousine rolled Manhattanward. Froman told Cranston his destination—an address
in upper Manhattan—and Stanley was instructed to drive there.
There was something ominous in the silence that hung within the luxurious limousine. Only the luminous
spots of cigar tips showed that the two men were awake, each concerned with his own thoughts.
Though both were introspective, and neither gained an inkling of the other's notions, it was more than a
coincidence that both should have been thinking of one man.
For Lamont Cranston and Frederick Froman, though differing in plans and purposes, were concentrating
deeply upon the activities of a single individual who had been a guest at the home of Tobias Waddell.
They were thinking of Marcus Holtmann, the man who had just returned from Russia.
CHAPTER II. ONE MAN MISSING
THE car drew up in front of an old house on a side street. Frederick Froman glanced at his watch as he
alighted.
"Half past twelve," he remarked. "We made excellent time coming in from Waddell's place. Thank you
very much for the ride, Mr. Cranston."
"You are quite welcome," was the reply.
"I should like to have you visit me sometime," added Froman. "This is my mansion"—he smiled as he
indicated the somber house beside which the car was stopped—"and although it is modest in
appearance, I can assure you that the hospitality is extended with the best of will."
Lamont Cranston bowed, and extended his hand. Froman strode up the steps of the old brick-faced
house, a three-story building of a former era.
Cranston noted that Froman rang the bell. The door was opened, yielding a flood of light, just as the
limousine pulled away at Cranston's order.
By the time the car had reached the nearest avenue, Cranston gave an order through the speaking tube
that led to the chauffeur's seat.
"You are going in the wrong direction, Stanley," he said. "Turn back and go down the street again, then
to Twenty-third Street."
Passing the house into which Froman had gone, the silent observer in the rear seat of the limousine noted
that there were lights in the windows of an upstairs room. Evidently, Froman had gone there immediately
upon his arrival.
The car swung southward. It reached Twenty-third Street. Stanley, at the wheel, heard Cranston's quiet
voice telling him to stop. The chauffeur obeyed. Cranston alighted.
"Take the car to the Cobalt Club," was Cranston's order. "Wait for me there."
Stanley nodded and drove away. Cranston remained standing on the curb, watching the departing
limousine. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he raised the lapels of his coat and drew the garment closely
about his body. With a short, soft laugh, Cranston turned and stepped away from the street.
His black-clad form was swallowed instantly by the gloomy shroud of a blank-walled building. In that
spot, away from the glare of the nearest street lamp, Cranston's action was both amazing and mysterious.
A wayfarer who had noted the tall figure standing by the curb stood gaping in astonishment at the
disappearance.
Where Cranston had been, no living person remained. The blackness of night had opened like a curtain
to admit a mysterious entrant. The only trace of Cranston's presence was a gliding blotch that slid along
the dim-white pavement.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
In a twinkling, the calm-faced millionaire had transformed himself into Manhattan's man of mystery!
THE SHADOW!
None in New York knew the identity of that strange personage. A master mind who battled crime, he
worked from the blanketed seclusion of darkness to thwart the fiends who dominated the underworld.
To-night, The Shadow was not concerned with affairs of gangdom. In his adopted guise of Lamont
Cranston, he had passed an evening of quiet observation. Now, he was bound toward some unknown
haunt—the contact point from which he received the reports of operatives who obeyed him faithfully, yet
who had no inkling of his identity.
Nothing remained to show the course of The Shadow's journey. Not for one instant did his tall, gliding
form come into view. The next sign of his presence appeared in a small, pitch-black room—a silent
chamber which gave no sound until a slight click occurred amid the darkness.
With the click, a green-shaded lamp was lighted. It cast a circular spot of illumination upon the surface of
a polished table.
Into that sphere of illumination came two long white hands, moving creatures of life that seemed detached
from the hidden body which controlled them.
The hands of The Shadow!
Slender hands they were, yet the muscles beneath the smooth skin gave indication of tremendous
strength. The restless, tapering fingers moved with silky ease. Upon one finger—the third finger of the left
hand—glowed a large, translucent gem.
This jewel was a priceless girasol, or fire opal. Amid its hue of milky blue appeared deep reflections of
gleaming crimson.
This stone was the symbol of The Shadow, the strange amulet that was always with him. Its sullen glow
had carried thoughts of doom to dying eyes of evildoers; its vivid sparkle had brought hope to those who
were sorrowed and oppressed.
A tiny light appeared from across the table. The hands reached forth and drew back a pair of earphones.
The hands disappeared as the instruments were attached to the hidden head. A low, solemn voice spoke
through the darkness above the lamp.
"Report, Burbank."
"Marsland at the Belmar Hotel," came a quiet tone across the wire. "Reports no sign of Marcus
Holtmann. He has not been there. He has not checked out. Baggage still in room."
"Continue."
"Vincent at Grand Central Station. Holtmann did not appear to take the Midnight Special for Chicago.
Both operatives standing by."
"End operation." The Shadow's voice was stern. "Marsland to cover David Tholbin; Vincent to cover
Frederick Froman. Both listed in telephone book. Watch and report any activity that might pertain to
Holtmann."
A pause; then these added instructions:
"Special call to Waddell's home. Ask for Parker Noyes. Cut off system prior to conversation."
The hands placed the earphones on the other side of the table. Then they appeared beneath the light,
carrying a small packet of papers.
The deft fingers worked smoothly as they distributed the papers. The hands produced a flat map of the
United States, upon which were white-headed pins. Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and other cities of the
Middle West were indicated.
AMONG the papers was a written report inscribed in the odd characters of the Russian language.
Besides this appeared notations in French and German. They were alike to the hidden eyes above the
lamp. The Shadow read them all with ease.
Each page bore one name penned at the top. That was the name of Marcus Holtmann. Evidently The
Shadow had a keen interest in the affairs of the man who had come from Russia.
Holtmann had said that he was going to Chicago. That city was indicated by a pin on the map; but there
were other marked cities besides.
Upon a blank sheet of paper, the hand of The Shadow began a series of penciled notations. First
appeared the name Marcus Holtmann. Then two words: "Purpose—destination."
The probable purpose of Marcus Holtmann was covered by the papers on the table. The destination was
ostensibly one of the cities indicated on the map.
As The Shadow's hand remained motionless, it was obvious that some unforeseen happening had
intervened to obstruct well-formulated plans in the trailing of Marcus Holtmann.
To-night, The Shadow had watched to see if Holtmann had contacted with other persons prior to his
departure from New York. Noyes, Froman, and Tholbin, guests at Waddell's, had come under the
careful surveillance of Lamont Cranston.
Holtmann, no matter what his plans might have been, would in all probability have gone to the Belmar
Hotel to check out. If his proposed trip to Chicago should be a blind, he might not even have taken the
Midnight to Chicago; but, had he departed on that train, Vincent would have followed him.
Neither Marsland at the hotel, nor Vincent at the terminal, had observed Marcus Holtmann! Somewhere
between Waddell's Long Island home and Manhattan, Holtmann had vanished. The Shadow's careful
plans had been crossed by this unexpected occurrence.
Upon the paper, The Shadow wrote three names:
David Tholbin
Parker Noyes
Frederick Froman
With one of these three might rest a key to the mystery of Holtmann's disappearance. These men could
be involved, even though their actions at Waddell's had been unsuspicious.
From the data which pertained to Holtmann, The Shadow selected a sheet which included a report of the
man's activities since his arrival in New York.
According to the observations of The Shadow's agents, Marcus Holtmann had held no significant
communication with any one since his return from Russia.
To-night's function had been his last opportunity. David Tholbin had left shortly after Holtmann. Parker
Noyes had remained at Waddell's. Frederick Froman had been taken to his home by Lamont Cranston.
Of the three, only Tholbin seemed free.
The light flickered from across the table. The earphones were ready. Burbank's report came in its
methodical tone.
"Marsland reports David Tholbin at Club Drury, with party of friends. Check on time indicates he came
there directly from Waddell's.
"Vincent reports short watch at Frederick Froman's house. Light in front room upstairs. Extinguished
now. House dark. No one has entered or left."
A pause; then Burbank added:
"Parker Noyes still at Waddell's."
There was no reply for a full minute. Then, the low voice of The Shadow sounded as he gave new orders
to his trusted agent, Burbank.
"Marsland to watch Tholbin," said The Shadow. "Vincent to watch Froman's home. Until morning."
The conversation ended. The hands of The Shadow rested motionless upon the table. At length, they
moved, while the fingers slowly piled the sheets of paper.
The check-up had ended in a blank. The riddle was unsolved!
The Shadow was confronted with a perplexing problem. One man was missing. Marcus Holtmann, after
leaving Waddell's home in a taxicab, had effected a strange disappearance.
The light clicked off. The room was in total darkness. A low, tense laugh echoed through the gloom.
Then, The Shadow was gone.
Half an hour later, the desk clerk at the Belmar Hotel answered the telephone. In response to the quiet
voice across the wire he gave this answer:
"Mr. Holtmann has not come in, sir... No, he has not checked out."
Shortly after that call, Stanley, the chauffeur, drove up to the front of the Cobalt Club in response to the
doorman's call. Lamont Cranston stepped from beneath the marquee, and entered the limousine.
"Home, Stanley."
As the big car rolled southward toward the Holland Tunnel, the lone figure in the back seat was deep in
thought. Buried in the darkness, Lamont Cranston was a silent, invisible being.
The brain of The Shadow was at work, seeking a clew to the strange disappearance of Marcus
Holtmann.
The missing man must be found.
That was to be The Shadow's task!
CHAPTER III. THE DUNGEON OF DOOM
FREDERICK FROMAN'S house stood silent and forbidding in the night. To Harry Vincent, watching
from the opposite side of the street, it was a place of silence and inactivity. The last light had been
extinguished long ago. It seemed obvious that the occupants had retired.
But within that house, there was activity that could not be noticed from without. Frederick Froman was
not asleep. Instead, he was seated, wide awake, in a dimly lighted room. The stone walls of the little
room showed that it was located in the cellar of the old house. There was not a window in the room.
Froman was reclining comfortably in the one easy-chair. He was still attired in evening dress, as he puffed
languidly at a panatella. His well-formed face was expressionless. He was waiting for something; yet he
showed no signs of impatience.
The center of the floor began to rise. A solid square of cement came slowly upward, actuated by a force
from below. Four metal rods, like the corners of a skeleton cabinet, appeared beneath the ascending
slab.
Froman eyed this indifferently. He made no comment until the complete structure of an open-sided
elevator had appeared and a short, stocky man had stepped from it.
"Well?"
Froman's question was quietly addressed to the man who had emerged from the solid floor.
"He is ready to speak, sir."
The stocky man's reply was in a thickly accented voice. Froman smiled and spoke a few words in
another language. The man answered in the same tongue.
Leisurely, Froman arose and stepped into the elevator. It descended into gloomy depths.
There, beneath the floor of the cellar, was a short passage illuminated by a single light. Striding to the end
of this corridor, Froman stopped before a solid barrier that closed the way. He turned a knob that was
located in the center of the blocking slab. The barrier slid upward, disappearing into the ceiling.
Three steps below lay a gloomy dungeon, a stone-walled room hewn in the depths beneath the cellar.
Two tough-faced men were there, standing with folded arms. They were looking at a huddled form
strait-jacketed against the wall.
Both watchers bowed as Froman entered. The light-haired man did not return the salutation. He
advanced and looked coldly toward the prisoner. The huddled man turned a sweat-streaked visage
toward the new inquisitor, hoping for relief.
Frederick Froman, captor, was face to face with Marcus Holtmann, captive!
THE anguish on Holtmann's countenance showed that he had been undergoing some maddening torture.
There was no pity in Froman's eye. His cold stare held a steely glint. He had the glance of a cruel eagle
looking down upon its prey.
Neither man spoke. Holtmann, tight in the gripping pressure of the straitjacket, emitted a hopeless gasp.
That was the only sign that passed between the two.
Froman, however, turned to one of his formidable henchmen. He made a motion with his hands. The man
leaned over Holtmann's body, and adjusted the binding straps at the back of the jacket. Relieved,
Holtmann sank back with a sigh.
Another sign from Froman. The three henchmen—for Froman's conductor had entered with him—filed
from the gloomy dungeon. The barrier dropped behind them. Froman was alone with his victim.
摘要：

THEROMANOFFJEWELSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.AMILLIONAIREENTERTAINS?CHAPTERII.ONEMANMISSING?CHAPTERIII.THEDUNGEONOFDOOM?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWHEARS?CHAPTERV.DEATHINTERVENES?CHAPTERVI.THENEXTNIGHT?CHAPTERVII.THEPLANISMADE?CHAPTERVIII.MENINMOSCOW?CH...

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