Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 160 - Vanished Treasure

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VANISHED TREASURE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 15, 1938.
Ghostly footfalls trod the old Beld mansion, and bloodshed and murder
followed in their wake! But only The Shadow knew the secret of the buried,
bloody treasure!
CHAPTER I
MIDNIGHT VISITORS
THE taxicab did not stop directly in front of the Germaine Apartments,
and
Marcus Beld knew why. This was not the first time that he had come here at
night. Cab drivers, as a clan, seemed to know that there could be danger where
"Itch" Fendel lived.
When the wrong guys went to see Itch, they sometimes ran into bullets at
the doorstep. The dim-lighted lobby of the Germaine made an excellent
background for machine-gun practice from across the street. That was why
hackies preferred to pull by, and let their passengers venture the remaining
distance on foot.
There had been two killings on the threshold of the Germaine Apartments;
but Itch Fendel had not been blamed for them. He had testified that the
murdered men were his friends, and had backed the assertions with proof. The
law, therefore, had accepted the murders as the work of Itch's enemies.
The odd thing was that Itch Fendel, king of gamblers, had no visible
enemies. That made it an even-money bet that Itch, himself, had registered
those rub-outs at the entrance of the old apartment-hotel that he owned. But
the wise gentry who held that opinion were also too canny to voice it.
Marcus Beld showed no hesitation when he walked into the lobby of the
apartment house. There was nervousness, though, upon his sallow, long-nosed
face. His eyes were fishlike, as they stared straight ahead, and his mouth had
an expression that also suited a finny creature.
When he reached the elevator, Beld tried to show unconcern by adjusting
the black tie that adorned his tuxedo collar; but the result was an awkward
gulp from overpressure on his Adam's apple.
Marcus didn't like the looks of the clerk and two loungers in the lobby.
They made him jittery about the future.
For Marcus Beld was entering into the good graces of Itch Fendel, but he
wasn't sure that he would have the same status when he left. Tonight, perhaps,
there would be murder on the way out. It all depended on how Itch took the
news
that Marcus would be forced to give him.
The elevator was in a deep corner of the lobby; Marcus felt relieved when
its door opened. Once aboard, his nervousness returned when he glanced at the
operator and realized that this fellow might also be a vassal of Itch Fendel.
Marcus couldn't see the man's face, for the operator was busy managing
the
jerky elevator. Highly powered for its weight, the car took a skyrocket trip
to
the seventh floor. The door stuck when the operator tugged it; but at last it
jerked open. Marcus stepped into a little anteroom that formed the entrance to
Itch's apartment.
The elevator had descended when a brawny man stepped suddenly into sight.
Marcus recognized "Croak" Lorman, the husky, broad-faced bodyguard who was
constantly with Itch Fendel.
Croak greeted Marcus with a guttural grunt, that could have accounted for
the bodyguard's nickname; but Marcus had a different theory on that subject.
Croak had a reputation as a killer; that was probably the reason for his
underworld moniker.
Mere sight of Croak made Marcus uneasy. The fellow's smile was leery; he
had a way of bobbing into view when least expected. He always made visitors
precede him into the apartment, while he followed with a catlike tread.
On this occasion, Croak employed the usual process. As Marcus walked
along
the hallway to Itch's living room, he could imagine a gun muzzle tickling his
spine. The sallow visitor was ready for collapse by the time that walk was
finished. All that saved him was the cheery greeting that he received from
Itch
Fendel.
TALL, long-jawed, Itch wore a smile that was chiefly an outthrust of his
lower lip. He was attired in a gaudy purple dressing gown that gave him a
mildish appearance. His welcome was spoken with an easy, gentle purr, but
there
was no velvet in his handshake.
Marcus felt the grip of a bone-crushing paw; it seemed to symbolize the
strength that Itch had at his command. And it was Fendel's itching palm for
gambling money, that had given him his nickname.
"Park yourself," suggested Itch. "I'm mixing a drink; after that, we can
start to talk."
He stepped to a portable bar, where he began to pour liquors into a
cocktail shaker. While he was adding ice cubes, Itch spoke to Croak, who was
standing at the door.
"Outside, Croak," Itch told the bodyguard. "See that nobody disturbs me
and this fellow. We got a lot to talk about - in private!"
While Itch was speaking, he didn't even glance toward the spot where
Croak
stood; a fact that made Marcus shift uneasily in the big chair that he had
chosen. If Itch was smart enough to keep track of Croak, without looking to
see
where the sneak-footed fellow was, Marcus could see trouble for himself.
Very shortly, Marcus would be trying to alibi himself with Itch. Though
his story was a straight one, Marcus figured that his chances of selling it to
Itch would be very slim. Even when Croak sidled away from the door, Marcus
felt
no relief. He guessed that Croak would be on instant call, if Itch needed him.
That guess was wrong. Curiously, the trouble due upon these premises was
to be encountered by Croak, not Marcus.
FIRST inkling of such trouble came to Croak the moment that he stepped
into the anteroom. Barely past the door, the bodyguard closed it, edged back
into the deep doorway. He could hear the slight sound of the elevator; it
seemed to be sneaking upward from the ground floor.
That was enough to rouse Croak's suspicion, for none of the regular
operators could handle the jerky car with such skill. As Croak watched, the
elevator came into view behind the openwork door of the shaft. There, again,
was cause for vigil. The elevator was dark!
Croak saw the operator by the light of the anteroom. He observed that the
man was wearing a uniform like the usual operator; but his face was turned
away. From his build, Croak decided that he wasn't the regular man who
belonged
on this shift. Croak watched while the grilled door eased open.
From the blackness of the elevator emerged a second shape - a cloaked
figure, with head topped by a slouch hat. Mere sight of that intruder brought
a
fierce intake of Croak's breath.
The Shadow!
As quick-witted as he was stealthy, Croak pictured the entire setup. The
Shadow, master foe and battler of crime, had come to pry into the affairs of
Itch Fendel. To make certain of his entry here, The Shadow had planted one of
his agents in the elevator, as temporary operator.
That accounted for The Shadow's entrance to the apartment-hotel itself.
There was a side corridor on the ground floor; the fake elevator man must have
unlocked the big door that blocked it. Probably The Shadow had trailed Marcus
Beld here, and had decided the time was ripe for a visit of his own.
The time was riper than The Shadow supposed. That thought brought a
savage
grin to Croak's blocky features, as the bodyguard eased a .38 from his hip
pocket. Croak was getting set to top off his reputation as a killer, by
delivering death to The Shadow!
From his vantage spot, Croak had perfect opportunity for such a deed;
recognizing that, he made an error. He expected The Shadow to approach the
deep-set doorway; so Croak paused, preferring to cut loose with close-range
fire. The killer hadn't reckoned with The Shadow's strategy. Even when enemies
seemed absent, The Shadow used deft tactics.
Scarcely out of the elevator, the black-cloaked intruder showed a sudden
twist of speed. Instead of coming toward the recessed doorway, he wheeled
across the anteroom, to reach the wall beside the door. He was out of range
before Croak could aim.
The killer tightened his gun grip. He'd show The Shadow some smooth work
of his own, before the cloaked foeman knew that Croak was on hand. Holding
back
until the proper moment, Croak took a sudden, silent step from the doorway,
and
with it whipped his gun straight for The Shadow's direction.
The move was tigerish, both in speed and stealth. Croak wasn't wrong; he
had demonstrated ability that closely matched The Shadow's own. He had even
guessed where The Shadow was, almost to the exact spot. He was wrong, though,
when he pictured The Shadow's posture.
Croak was aiming at eye level, and The Shadow wasn't in his path of fire.
Creeping toward the doorway, The Shadow had crouched low. If Croak had tugged
his revolver trigger, the result would have been a wasted bullet whining above
The Shadow's slouch hat.
However, Croak did not fire. Instead, he took an instinctive course that
was proof of his ability as an ugly fighter. Diving straight for The Shadow's
crouched form, he brought his gun-hand downward in a short, hard swing toward
The Shadow's head.
AT the same instant, The Shadow made a swift move. He had crept toward
the
doorway, gunless; but he had an automatic within easy reach. Ordinarily, The
Shadow would have whipped that weapon from his cloak; in this emergency, he
could not spare the time. As Croak slugged, The Shadow came upward, thrusting
a
pair of gloved hands for the killer's throat.
There was a witness to that sudden clash; namely, the man who was in the
elevator. He was Burbank, a secret agent who usually served as contact between
The Shadow and his other aids. Because of his knowledge of mechanical
appliances, Burbank had been chosen for his present task. He had shown skill
in
handling the elevator; but he was not expert in combat. Burbank could do no
more
than watch the fray.
He saw The Shadow's hands thrust Croak backward, sending the killer into
a
sprawl; at the same moment, Burbank spied the sweeping finish of Croak's
slugging motion. The revolver caught The Shadow's head with a sidelong stroke.
As Croak flattened, The Shadow sagged.
Before Burbank could spring from the elevator, The Shadow had come to his
feet. He was staggering, groggy from the blow, but he could see the elevator
awaiting him. The Shadow reeled into it, tripping over the edge of the
elevator
floor, to sink into a darkened corner.
Croak was on hands and knees, groping for his gun, in time to see The
Shadow reel to safety. He aimed at Burbank, who was trying to close the door
with one hand while he gripped the elevator lever with the other. Burbank
shifted from view within the elevator, before Croak could fire. Again, Croak
showed speed.
Head down, the killer charged for the open elevator, expecting to dive
aboard it when Burbank started the car downward. This time, Burbank was in his
own element, where he could show his special type of cool skill.
As Croak started that twelve-foot drive, Burbank, disregarding the open
door, gave the operating lever a hard pull. The elevator responded in its
swift, jerky fashion - but in the direction that Croak did not expect.
Instead of dropping, the elevator shot upward. The low dive that Croak
took to avoid what he thought was the down-coming top, carried him beneath the
bottom of the upshooting floor. The blackness into which the killer plunged
was
not the elevator; it was the darkness of the elevator shaft.
A long, sickly sigh trailed from the depths as Croak took the
many-storied
fall to the basement level of the shaft. There was a muffled clatter: the
crumpling of a human frame against concrete. That sound was confined within
the
shaft itself.
The silence that settled, told that the killer had met the death which he
had long ago deserved. Doom had found Croak Lorman; the path he had guarded
was
clear.
Itch Fendel was due to receive another visitor, in the person of The
Shadow!
CHAPTER II
PAST AND FUTURE
WHEN Burbank stopped the elevator at the tenth floor, The Shadow stirred
weakly. Burbank helped his chief rise; The Shadow steadied against the inner
corner. From hidden lips came a whispered laugh, solemn in its tone.
Not only had The Shadow shown prompt recuperation; the fact that he was
alone with Burbank enabled him to piece what had happened to Croak. After a
few
moments, The Shadow spoke an order. Burbank eased the elevator down to the
seventh floor.
Again, The Shadow crossed the anteroom. The door was unlatched, as Croak
had left it, giving direct access into the apartment. The light from the
living
room showed at the far end of the hallway; the clink of glasses told that Itch
and Marcus were there. Reaching the edge of the wide living room doorway, The
Shadow looked in upon the scene.
Very few minutes had passed since Croak's departure. Itch was just coming
to the subject of Marcus's visit.
"Here's to the thirty grand," proposed Itch, raising his glass. "Sorry
you
owe it to me, Marcus, but you can afford to fork over, the way things stand.
You'll have plenty left; and I'll hand you some advice that's worth thirty
thousand bucks: Lay off gambling with those who know the racket - and that
includes me."
Marcus nodded. His eyes were blinky; he covered the twitch of his lips by
gulping from the cocktail glass. Then:
"About that thirty thousand, Itch," he said, weakly. "I don't think I'll
be able to pay over all of it. Not - well, right away - and maybe -"
"You need time?" interposed Itch. His purr was smooth, but his eyes were
sharp. "What's the trouble? Are they settling your grandfather's estate in
installments?"
"No," returned Marcus. "I'm getting my whole share of it. Only, it's less
than I thought it would be. It comes to ten thousand dollars."
The effect on Itch was instant. The gambler dropped his glossy pose; his
long jaw took a thrust that brought his lower lip with it. He was across the
room, his heavy hand on the arm of Marcus's chair. Eye to eye with his sallow
visitor, Itch snarled his new opinions.
"So you fooled me, huh?" demanded Itch. "Handed me the bunk that you were
coming in on a five-way split, with a half million to be shared! Kept me
waiting until the old man croaked, without telling me you weren't going to get
your divvy!"
Marcus was up from his chair, trembling; in his protesting arm waves, he
knocked the cocktail glass from the table. The glass shattered when it hit the
floor; the sound diverted Itch long enough for Marcus to get in his next
words.
"I got the right share, Itch!" pleaded Marcus. "I didn't lie to you. The
only trouble was, the money wasn't there. My grandfather wasn't worth a half
million when he died!"
THERE was a drop of Itch's long jaw, then a contemptuous, big-lipped leer
that betokened unbelief. By that time, Marcus managed to fumble in his pocket
and pull out a sheaf of crinkly papers. He shoved them to Itch, with pleading
words:
"Look these over, Itch. They give the proof."
Itch examined the papers. They interested him so much that he finally sat
down to read them quietly. He looked sober when he finished. Reaching for the
cocktail shaker and another glass, he poured Marcus a fresh drink, as a peace
offering.
"I received the ten thousand, Itch," said Marcus, eagerly. "It's in the
bank; I'll give it to you tomorrow, or whenever you want it!"
Itch nodded. He was thinking of something else.
"Half a million," he mused, aloud. "Huh! Anybody would have figured that
old Titus Beld was worth that much money: He had the dough once" - Itch
referred to the papers - "but it petered down to a lousy fifty grand."
"Bad investments," explained Marcus, gloomily. "The old man made a lot of
them in the last ten years. He wouldn't listen to anybody's advice."
"How do you know? You didn't see him much."
"Hugh Claymer did. He's my cousin - the one, who stuck around with the
old
man, trying to get in right with him. Only, Hugh didn't make out any better
than
the rest of us."
Itch nodded. He knew about the Beld family. It consisted of three
cousins:
Marcus Beld, Hugh Claymer and Eunice Kerlen, together with two maiden aunts
who
were unimportant. What bothered Itch, however, was the twenty thousand dollars
that he still wanted to collect from Marcus, after ten thousand had been paid.
More at ease, Marcus was becoming shrewd. His fishy eyes were sharp
enough
to discern the cause of Itch's annoyance.
"Maybe if I kept the ten thousand," suggested Marcus, "I could build it
up
and pay you more of what I owe you."
"Build it up?" scoffed Itch. "How? Playing stud poker with a
hundred-dollar limit, the way you did with me?"
Marcus shook his head. His expression showed that he had something
definite in mind. Itch told him to "out with it", and after a short
hesitation,
Marcus spoke.
"WHEN the estate was settled today," Marcus said, "we found that twenty
thousand dollars of it was tied up in real estate - the old Beld mansion, out
on Long Island.
"Hugh Claymer took a half interest in the mansion, as his legacy, and
paid
over ten thousand besides, to buy the whole house. That left us well fixed for
funds."
Itch showed only a casual interest.
"What's Claymer going to do?" he questioned, while shaking another drink.
"Sink all the dough he's got, trying to bust into the real estate business?"
"No." Marcus spoke in serious tone. "He's going to search for the Beld
treasure."
"Treasure?" Itch's smile had returned. "Some of that old pirate hokum?"
"No," replied Marcus. "This dates back to the Revolution. The Belds were
a
prominent Tory family. They were entrusted with huge funds, and the story goes
that the money was buried somewhere near the Long Island homestead. But
there's
nothing to prove that it was ever dug up again."
The story began to impress Itch Fendel.
"This guy Claymer" - Itch's tone had hardened - "what gives him the idea
that he can grab off that dough all for his own?"
"He didn't have that idea," insisted Marcus. "Hugh was fair enough about
it. He offered all of us a chance to come in on the proposition. I couldn't,
because I owed you my ten thousand."
"What made the others pass it up?"
"Well, the two old ladies couldn't see it; but Eunice Kerlen was
interested, at first. Finally, though, she decided to hold on to her money.
But
I don't think it pleased Roger Hasting."
"Who's he?"
"Eunice's boy friend. It's just the kind of gamble he'd like."
Itch was pondering, stroking his long jaw. His eyes showed the keenness
that Marcus had often noticed at the card table. Thinking that the gambler was
fully interested, Marcus supplied another suggestion.
"Give the word, Itch," he said, "and I'll see if the proposition is still
open."
"Not a chance!" interrupted Itch. "I'll still take your ten grand,
Marcus.
Only, I'll let the other twenty wait, until we see how Claymer makes out with
his treasure hunt."
"But if we're not in on it -"
"We'll be in on it!" Itch was harsh, emphatic. "On a fifty-fifty split,
deducting the twenty grand and my expenses. But we won't ask Claymer to let us
in on it. We'll muscle in on our own!"
ITCH didn't have to say more. Marcus saw it all, and the gleam of his
fishlike eyes testified to his approval.
The Shadow, listening, gained a complete impression of what Itch
intended.
Fendel was more than a lone-wolf gambler. He played that part as a
"front"
to cover deep paths of crime. Secretly, Itch was the controlling factor in
several rackets that were rampant in Manhattan.
Whenever required, Itch could assemble a mob of hoodlums who would follow
every command he gave. Where he got them, how he got them, were riddles that
only Itch could answer. The fact that those thugs belonged to Itch was
completely covered.
With such shock troops at his disposal, Itch could foresee a sequel to
Claymer's treasure hunt. If the Tory gold should be found, Hugh Claymer would
have trouble keeping it, with Itch Fendel out to get it. Itch summed that
prospect for the benefit of Marcus Beld.
"Sit tight," he told his visitor. "Act like you're satisfied, and play up
to this guy Claymer. Put me wise to whatever happens. If this treasure stuff
gets ripe, I'll do the rest.
"It'll be a cinch to snatch that swag, way out on Long Island. You'll be
an innocent guy, Marcus, who won't know what it was all about. As for me -
nobody's going to figure out that I'm the brain in back of it."
"It's worth the gamble" - Itch chuckled - "because I've got nothing to
lose. You go easy, spending money, because you owe it to me. As for that crew
that works for me, they're on the pay roll anyway."
Itch poured out the contents of the shaker. He didn't notice the streak
of
blackness that was withdrawing along the floor within the doorway. It was
scarcely discernible against the pattern of the Oriental rug.
That fading patch marked the departure of The Shadow. The black-cloaked
observer had heard a signal from the front of the hallway. Burbank was tipping
off his chief that time was getting short. The Shadow had learned enough from
his visit to Itch's abode.
Back in the elevator, The Shadow rode with Burbank to the ground floor.
Emerging, he took the side passage from the building, and Burbank followed
close behind him. The Shadow was in a darkened alley when Burbank arrived. The
agent waited, smoking a cigarette.
Another man came in from the street, saw the glow of Burbank's cigarette.
"Sorry I kept you waiting, Luke," said the new arrival. "Thanks for
staying on the shift."
"O.K., Jerry." Burbank spoke thickly. "Forget it!"
Jerry entered the building, never guessing that the real Luke had gone an
hour before, not knowing that Jerry would be late. Jerry had kept a late date,
that had been fixed by The Shadow. He had phoned Luke to tell him, and Burbank
had tapped the call. Posing as Jerry, Burbank had met Luke in the alley, an
hour ago.
When Marcus Beld departed from the seventh-floor apartment, it was Jerry
who took him downstairs. Itch Fendel accompanied Marcus to the elevator and
looked around for Croak Lorman. Not seeing the bodyguard, Itch growled
something, but asked no questions.
That fitted The Shadow's expectations. Croak's death would pass as
accidental, when discovered. Itch would get no tangible evidence pointing to
The Shadow's visit.
Provided with facts from the past, The Shadow could deal with future
crime!
CHAPTER III
THE TREASURE QUEST
THE SHADOW was right. Croak's death created a stir the next day, when it
was reported to the law, for the Germaine Apartments had a bad reputation.
Itch
Fendel was interviewed by reporters, and the gambler did plenty of sincere
talking when he argued that Croak had simply blundered into his own disaster.
City inspectors went over the elevator shaft and found that the doors
were
in bad order. Sometimes they didn't stay closed when the elevator left a
floor,
and it was probable that Croak Lorman had slipped through when he tried to
yank
the door shut on the seventh floor.
Luke and Jerry were questioned separately; both disclaimed
responsibility,
but each admitted that the accident might have happened during his trick. By
the
time all that was finished, Itch firmly believed that the accident story was
correct.
Marcus Beld read the news and it pleased him. He had never liked Croak.
Maybe Itch would choose another bodyguard; but he couldn't possibly pick as
mean a rogue as Croak. There weren't any worse available, in Marcus's opinion.
However, Marcus didn't worry much about the matter.
Final instructions from Itch had been for Marcus to stay away from the
gambler's headquarters. Tonight, as his first step toward reaching Hugh
Claymer, Marcus intended to call on Eunice Kerlen. He had an idea that Hugh
would be at Eunice's apartment around nine o'clock; but that guess was wrong.
It was only a few minutes after eight when Hugh called there. The doorman
recognized him when he entered, for Hugh Claymer was an easy person to
remember.
Middle-aged, thin and stoop-shouldered, Hugh did not look like an
adventurer who would be intrigued by a treasure hunt. His thin face was
mournful, his gray eyes almost expressionless. His manner was polite, almost
servile. When he removed his hat, he held it in both hands, while he bowed his
baldish head in jerky fashion.
Roger Hasting was in the apartment when Hugh was admitted. Roger had the
build of a football player and a grip that made Hugh glad he had kept his
gloves on when shaking hands. With a friendly grin, Roger invited Hugh to a
chair.
"Eunice went out to get some cigarettes," Roger told him. "Meanwhile,
there's something I want to ask you. It's about this treasure business."
Hugh bowed politely.
"What chance have you of finding it?" demanded Roger. "Enough to make it
worth the cash that you've invested?"
"That is difficult to answer," replied Hugh, dryly. "If I find the
treasure, the investment will certainly be worthwhile. If not" - he shrugged -
"well, I would say the chance is worth it. After all, there is the spice of
adventure."
"You don't look adventurous," observed Roger. "No harm meant, of course."
"I quite understand," smiled Hugh. "You mustn't judge by my appearance.
Living with old Titus Beld, serving so many of his whims, was a trial that I
can't readily forget. It made me develop a patient disposition."
EUNICE arrived to hear the last words. She was an attractive girl - a
definite brunette, whose dark eyes seemed to smile with her well-formed lips.
The slight snubbiness of her nose did not detract from her appearance, for it
went with her lively manner.
"Still talking about the treasure?" chided Eunice, looking toward Roger.
"I told you I don't care about it. I've made up my mind to be content with ten
thousand dollars."
Roger showed a flash of anger; then curbed himself. He turned to Hugh.
"If I found information," he remarked, "that would help you uncover the
treasure, would you pay for it, Hugh? That is, give a share to Eunice?"
"I believe I would," replied Hugh, slowly. "Provided that it included
facts that I do not possess. Frankly, I may not have all the data that I shall
eventually need."
"Good!" Roger thwacked Hugh on the shoulder. "Hear that, Eunice?" He
turned to Hugh. "I'm going to look over some old documents, tonight, in the
Brevoort Library."
Hugh showed both interest and surprise.
"I didn't know that library was open to the public!" he exclaimed. "You
mean the old place on Madison Avenue, don't you?"
"That's it. They had to make it public to avoid paying taxes. However,
the
general public doesn't know it's public; so you don't run into many people
there."
With a wave to Eunice, Roger stepped toward the door. Hugh followed,
stopping Roger for a moment. Politely, he explained that he had come to invite
both Roger and Eunice to spend a weekend at the old Long Island mansion.
"Come next Friday," suggested Hugh. "By the way, Eunice, the old room in
the west wing is all ready for you. You recall the one I mean - the room above
the garden?"
"Of course I do!" exclaimed. Eunice. "You're a dear, Hugh! That was the
room that grandfather used to give me when I would visit him as a child. You
can count on me Friday. When are you starting out there?"
"Tonight," replied Hugh, glancing at his watch. "My train goes in half an
hour. You remember the station, of course - Wenwold. There's usually a cab
waiting there, in the afternoon. Tonight, one of the servants will meet me."
EUNICE was alone in the apartment when a call from the lobby announced
that Marcus Beld was downstairs. Eunice had no wish to see her sallow-faced
cousin. In fact, since Hugh Claymer had left, she had been hoping that he had
not extended a week-end invitation to Marcus.
Over the telephone, Eunice gave word for Marcus to wait. He was in the
lobby when she arrived there.
"Terribly, sorry, Marcus," Eunice told him. "I'm going out. You should
have called earlier; while Roger and Hugh were here."
Marcus showed annoyance when he heard that Hugh was gone. He curbed
himself, to ask where Eunice planned to go. She named a friend's apartment;
glibly, Marcus stated that he was going in the same direction and would
provide
the cab. Soon, they were riding in the direction of Times Square.
"How's Hugh making out with his treasure hunt?" inquired Marcus. "Any
good
reports yet?"
"He has just moved into the old house," replied Eunice. "He invited" -
she
paused, deciding to omit her own name - "he invited Roger to visit him there."
"Why Roger?" demanded Marcus, indignantly. "Hugh should have invited his
own relatives first. We would certainly like to see the old house again."
Eunice still decided to say nothing of the invitation that Hugh had given
her. She knew that Marcus would use it as a wedge to invite himself out to the
house. No weekend could be pleasant with Marcus on hand. Eunice knew that from
past experience.
In her effort to conceal one fact, she stated others, and almost
instantly, regretted it.
"Hugh wants to talk to Roger about the treasure," she began. "Roger has
gone to the old Brevoort Library to examine some historic documents. Hugh may
need such information. If he does need it -"
Eunice stopped abruptly. Passing street lights showed the eager,
avaricious gaze that had come to Marcus's fishlike features. Though he quickly
tried to cover up that eagerness, Marcus was belated.
"It won't amount to anything," declared Eunice, hastily. "Roger always
thinks that he is an expert in tracing unknown facts. But he usually finds
that
he is mistaken."
Marcus chuckled, as if in agreement. He let the subject drop; but when
Eunice stepped from the cab, she felt convinced that Marcus was thinking over
the facts that she had mentioned.
By the time she reached her friend's apartment, Eunice had decided upon a
prompt trip to another destination. If Marcus had it in mind to make trouble,
Eunice could provide a way to offset it.
MEANWHILE, Marcus had continued his taxi ride. Arriving at a small hotel,
he entered the lobby. Immediately afterward, another cab pulled up. A cloaked
figure emerged, took a shrouded path through a side door.
The Shadow was on the trail of Marcus Beld.
No eyes spied The Shadow; but there was an observer who spotted the faint
trickle of light that came when the side door opened. That watcher was the
cabby who had brought Marcus here.
He wasn't an ordinary taxi driver. His face was ugly, thuggish. His eyes
had a glower of suspicion when they saw the side door shut. The fellow slid
from in back of the wheel.
In the hotel lobby, Marcus had reached a side passage that contained
telephone booths. He entered one, dialed Itch's number. When he heard the
gambler's voice across the wire Marcus repeated the information that he had
acquired from Eunice.
"Maybe Roger has got something..." Marcus was concluding his talk in
eager
tone. "Listen, Itch, if I went down there... What's that?... All right, I'll
stay out of it, if you say so... Of course I know you can handle things, Itch.
I'll do just what you say - keep an alibi for myself."
Hanging up, Marcus went out through the lobby. He saw the cab that had
brought him here, but its driver was gone; so Marcus took another taxi. The
address that he gave was a night club, only five-minutes ride away.
Those same five minutes were moving slowly, back at the hotel. In a
corner
near the side door stood a blackened form, so motionless that it seemed part
of
the wall. A hotel guest had come to make a telephone call just after Marcus
left, and a friend of his was lounging close by, smoking a cigarette.
Having heard Marcus's full conversation, The Shadow was in no haste to
leave, for he knew it would be unnecessary to follow the sallow schemer. The
Shadow preferred to wait until the chance newcomers were gone, then make an
easy fade-out through the side door.
That same door was not quite shut; its latch had failed to catch. Through
the crack, an eye was watching, even The Shadow could not spy it, against the
outside blackness. But the observer, in his turn, did not see The Shadow.
The climax came after the hotel guest and his friend had finally left the
row of booths. The Shadow glided from his hiding spot, turned toward the side
door. His outlined form was visible against the lobby lights; that same glow
reflected something that The Shadow saw.
The crack of the door had widened; wedged in it was a glimmering object:
the muzzle of a revolver.
摘要：

VANISHEDTREASUREbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"October15,1938.GhostlyfootfallstrodtheoldBeldmansion,andbloodshedandmurderfollowedintheirwake!ButonlyTheShadowknewthesecretoftheburied,bloodytreasure!CHAPTERIMIDNIGHTVISITORSTHEtaxicabdidnotstopdirectlyinfrontoftheGermaineApart...

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