Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 078 - The Third Skull

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THE THIRD SKULL
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER II. THE LAW DECIDES
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ENTERS
? CHAPTER IV. WINGATE'S VISITORS
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW CHOOSES
? CHAPTER VI. THE SILVER SKULL
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW FIGHTS
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH FROM DARKNESS
? CHAPTER IX. THE HEIR ARRIVES
? CHAPTER X. SPOILS RECLAIMED
? CHAPTER XI. MOVES IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. THE ROOM OF SKULLS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND SKULL
? CHAPTER XIV. THE FUTILE FRAY
? CHAPTER XV. FACTS RECOUNTED
? CHAPTER XVI. THE NEW TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVII. ON LONG ISLAND
? CHAPTER XVIII. IN THE GALLERY
? CHAPTER XIX. THE NEXT INTRUDER
? CHAPTER XX. THE KILLER TRAPPED
? CHAPTER XXI. RAIDERS RENEW
? CHAPTER XXII. THE BIG-SHOT
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW REVIEWS
CHAPTER I. DEATH BY NIGHT
"WHO'S there?"
The voice was a quavering tremolo. It came from the dried lips of a thin-faced old man, who lay propped
in bed. Sharp, suspicious eyes glistened from a withered countenance that was as white as the pillows
that supported it.
There was no answer to the old man's call. The white face showed worriment. Even the dull lights in the
shaded wall brackets were sufficient enough to reveal the tense pursing of the withered lips.
"Tristram," came another quaver. "Is it you, Tristram? Have you returned?"
No answer. Parchment lips relaxed.
"Wingate?" The old man's voice was questioning. "Are you here, Wingate? Have you arrived at last?"
Silence followed. This second-story room held the stillness of a tomb. Pervading gloom seemed creeping
inward from the hushed house below.
The old man raised a trembling claw-like hand from beneath the whiteness of the bedspread. He ran his
fingers through the long white hair that formed a shock upon his head. He cackled a nervous laugh.
Death hovered above this scene. There was something preternatural in the stillness of the room. The
pallor of the old man's countenance spoke of ebbing life. Darkness, thick at the doorway, gave the
semblance of waiting specters, ready to claim a passing soul.
Closed windows, drawn curtains, closed off the outer world. This room might well have been the most
isolated spot in all the globe. That fact must have occurred to the withered old man, for he expressed his
thoughts with a chuckle that was contrast to his previous nervousness.
"New York!" he cackled. "New York, with all its clamor! Everywhere about - noise and commotion -
yet none close by!"
The words were followed by a trailing chortle from half-opened lips. Propping himself upon one elbow,
the old man listened again. He was trying to detect sounds from below; noises that he had fancied he had
heard before. But his ears caught nothing.
There was a table beside the old man's bed. Upon it rested five objects: a candlestick with a half-burned
candle; a box of matches; a pad of paper; a fountain pen and a book.
The old man stretched long fingers toward the table. He fumbled with the match box, extracted a match,
struck it and managed to light the candle. He shook the match to extinguish it; then, by the glow of the
quivering candlelight, he tore a sheet from the pad of paper.
Clutching the book and the fountain pen, the old man leaned back against the pillows. With his left hand
holding the sheet of paper on the book, the old man delivered a satisfied sigh; then began to write with
the fountain pen.
One phrase completed, the old man read the words aloud, in senile fashion, his lips forming a cracked
smile as he quavered:
"I, Hildrew Parchell, being of sound mind -"
Quavering words ended; but the hand kept on writing, while the lips uttered intermittent chuckles.
Steadily, line after line, old Hildrew Parchell completed the document that he was inscribing. He finished
with a scrawled signature. He laid book and pen aside; but retained the paper, to read what he had
written.
Ink dried. The old man folded the paper, crinkling it between his hands. His grinning face was grotesque
in the candlelight. Then came a waver of the flame.
The old man stared at the candle; then glanced sharply toward the door of the room. His dried
countenance hardened.
A MAN was standing on the threshold. The light from the wall brackets showed the intruder to be a
hunch-shouldered individual of slight build. That same light revealed a sallow, scheming face. Hildrew
Parchell recognized the newcomer.
"Hothan!" exclaimed the old man, harshly. "Homer Hothan! What brings you here? I thought you had left
New York."
"I had." The intruder stepped forward. His face was somewhat youthful; his voice was almost pleading. "I
did leave New York, Mr. Parchell - after you dismissed me. But I had to come back, sir, when I learned
that you were dying - that you were very ill, sir, and -"
Hothan's hesitating tone brought a snorted chortle from old Hildrew Parchell. Hothan's ratlike
countenance belied the sympathetic words that the man was uttering. Hildrew Parchell was keen enough
to note it.
"You came back, eh?" sneered the old man, rising to one elbow. "You came back because you were
sorry for me, eh? Do you think I am a fool?" Parchell's tone was caustic. "Do you think I am fool enough
to believe that fable?
"I know why you are here, Hothan. You want to find out what you sought before: The secret of my
hidden wealth. When you worked here as my secretary, you pried about, trying to uncover my private
business. I caught you in the act. I was lenient enough to discharge you without making your treachery
public."
"I - I was wrong, sir," began Hothan. "My curiosity carried me too far, Mr. Parchell -"
"Curiosity, bah!" interjected the old man. "You were paid for your treachery, Hothan, and I know who
hired you. You came back tonight hoping that you might accomplish what you failed to gain before. I
heard you enter, downstairs, Hothan!"
"The door was unlocked, sir I looked about for Tristram -"
"You mean you were lurking outside; that you saw Tristram leave. With my trusted servant gone, you
decided that you could enter. You did find the door unlocked: that much is true. It was left open for
Weldon Wingate!"
The name brought a sharp glance from Hothan. The ex-secretary had entered the room; he was close by
the old man's bed when Hildrew Parchell spoke of Weldon Wingate. Hothan's change of expression was
sufficient enough to bring a harsh chuckle from old Parchell.
"That interests you," sneered the white-haired man. "It worries you, Hothan, doesn't it, to learn that my
lawyer is due here tonight? Well, it should interest you, because Wingate is going to find out those facts
that you sought to learn and failed!"
Hothan's fists clenched tightly. A sharp hiss came from his lips, as they formed an evil twist. Old Parchell
merely chuckled. Hothan's betrayal of his real nature was pleasing to the old man.
"Wingate will not be here alone," added Hildrew Parchell. "I am not fool enough to confide in one man,
even though he is my lawyer. Doctor Deseurre will be here also. You remember him, Hothan. My
physician. I expect him shortly after Wingate.
"Also Selwood Royce. His father was a friend of mine. I sent Tristram out to call Royce. So Tristram will
be back shortly. That will make four men who will learn my secret; four who will act promptly to carry
out my wishes. Four who will hold the secret of my wealth and its disposal. Wingate, Deseurre, Royce,
Tristram -"
HILDREW PARCHELL paused abruptly. He noted the nervous, defeated look upon Hothan's face. He
knew that the man was fuming inwardly at the thought of defeat. Harshly, old Parchell added a sarcastic
humiliation.
"I said four men would learn my secret," he cackled. "Four - so that no one man could play me false. I
was wrong when I said four. There will be five!"
"Who will be the other?" questioned Hothan.
"Yourself," sneered old Parchell. "I shall have you remain; to learn a secret which will be of no use to
you. Or to the man who hired you" - Parchell paused, eyeing Hothan closely - "the man who bribed you
to betray me; the man whose name I know. He will be as helpless as you, Hothan, because I shall tell all
to look out for his treachery."
Hothan chewed his lips. He stared sullenly; then began to look about the room. His gaze rested upon a
filing case in the corner; a wall safe beyond it.
Old Parchell chuckled.
"You searched those places, Hothan," he reminded, "and you learned nothing. Why? Because the secret
was not there. It was in my brain, Hothan" - with a clawlike finger, the old man tapped his withered
forehead - "here in my brain. The details of where my treasure is hidden; with orders concerning what is
to be done with it."
The old man dropped his right hand. It rested beside his other claw; unconsciously, old Parchell began to
crinkle the folded paper as he had done before.
Hothan breathed hard, suddenly. For the first time, the discharged secretary noted the document. White
against the bedspread, the paper had not previously gained his attention.
Hildrew Parchell looked up. His cackled laugh was a bluff. He was covering the fact that he had actually
written out his secret; that this paper in his hands contained the very information that Hothan was here to
get before others arrived. But the sudden glare in Hothan's eyes told Parchell that the game was ended.
The sallow-faced man advanced, his face venomous.
Hildrew Parchell performed a sudden twist. His face contorted with pain from the strain that the effort
cost him. Flinging away from Hothan's approach, the old man used his left hand to clutch the table on the
opposite side of the bed. With his right, he thrust the folded paper squarely into the flickering flame of the
candle.
Snarling, Hothan leaped forward. He bounded across the bed. Old Parchell swung up to meet him. With
his left hand, the old man beat wildly against his foe while his right hand waved the paper as a firebrand.
The document had caught fire at one corner. Grimly, Parchell was fighting to destroy it.
Hothan caught the old man's wrist and twisted it with spiteful force. Old Parchell gasped. His fingers
loosened; but he managed to fling the burning paper to the floor. Half of it ablaze, the precious document
was flaring like a miniature torch.
As Hothan dived for the paper, Parchell grabbed him. The old man's hands sunk deep into the
secretary's flesh as they found Hothan's neck. Together, the two men rolled from the bed.
Hothan's fist caught Parchell's jaw. The old man's head rebounded hard against the corner of the table.
Hothan pounced upon the paper, beating out the flame with his hands. As he did, old Parchell's form
collapsed. Clutching hands were gripping the table. It tumbled as the white-haired man collapsed. The
candle plopped from the candlestick. Flaming, it landed in the folds of a sheet.
The bedding took fire. Hothan had risen; he was scanning the half-burned document, muttering oaths as
he read lines that were no longer complete. Old Parchell had sprawled crazily upon the floor; his head
was beside the book and the writing pad that had fallen from the table.
Thrusting the half-burned paper into his pocket, Hothan snarled as he looked toward Parchell. Then the
ex-secretary's eyes became glued at the scene before him. Hothan dropped back as the heat of the flame
made a sudden impression upon him.
HILDREW PARCHELL was motionless. The drawn expression upon his upturned face was proof that
he was dead. Beyond the old man, flames were rising. The half of a bed sheet was ablaze; the fire was
licking at the dried wood of the high-topped bedstead.
A moment's pause by Hothan. Then, with a sharp oath, the secretary turned and fled. His sallow face half
terrified, half gloating, Hothan headed out through the darkened hall to a spot where flickering reflections
of the blaze showed the top of a banistered stairway.
Looking backward as he stumbled down, Hothan could see reflected glimmers from above. He reached
the lower hall. There, he stopped short and dived behind the curtained entrance of a living room. He was
just in time.
The front door was opening. Hothan heard it close; then came faltering footsteps. It was Tristram, old
Parchell's servant, returning.
Hothan clung behind the curtains, tense. Then he heard a sharp cry from the hallway.
Faltering footsteps quickened. They became a running sound upon the stairway. Tristram had spied the
glow. He was dashing to his master's room.
Hothan slid from behind the curtains; he gained the front door and closed it after him.
Viewed from the street, a ghoulish glare showed lurid flickers upon the shade of an upstairs window.
Hildrew Parchell's bed was fast becoming a funeral pyre, which Tristram was fighting to put out.
Skulking along the street itself, hastening away from the flame-threatened building, was a stooped figure
that no one was present to observe. Homer Hothan, murderer, was fleeing with his half-gained spoils.
CHAPTER II. THE LAW DECIDES
A SWARTHY, stocky man was standing in Hildrew Parchell's flame-scorched bedroom. One hour had
elapsed since Homer Hothan's secret flight. The man who now stood in charge of the premises was
Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector from headquarters.
Cardona was viewing a half-burned mattress. The bedclothes had been almost completely destroyed; the
high top of the bed was charred by flame. Beyond, Joe saw the scorched table, overturned on the floor.
Near it lay the body of Hildrew Parchell, attired in a nightgown.
The old man's white hair had been singed by the flames; otherwise, the body was untouched. The reason
was apparent in the presence of a fire extinguisher that lay on the floor by the foot of the bed.
Cardona turned about to face a pitiful, gray-haired servant who was seated, sad-faced, in a chair.
"You say the bed was all ablaze when you came in?" inquired Cardona. "That Parchell's body was on the
floor?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tristram, soberly. "And the table -"
"What about the table?" quizzed Cardona, sharply.
"It was overturned, sir," replied Tristram, promptly. "My master must have struck against it when he fell."
"Where did you get the fire extinguisher?"
"From the hall closet, sir, where Mr. Parchell always kept it."
Cardona eyed the servant. Then he asked another question.
"How long were you out of the house?" asked the detective. "Just why did you leave the front door
unlocked?"
Before Tristram could reply, there was an interruption. A tall, white-haired man spoke from the doorway.
Long-faced and irritable, this individual peered at Cardona through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.
"Let me speak, inspector," insisted the tall man, in abrupt fashion. "I have told you already that I am
Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell's attorney."
"You told me that," agreed Cardona. "But it has nothing to do with my quizzing of this man."
"It has," objected Wingate. "As Mr. Parchell's attorney, I feel that it is my province to represent this man
whom you are questioning. Tristram was Hildrew Parchell's faithful servant. Every shred of evidence in
this room points to the fact that he endeavored to save his master's life. I object to your conducting a
cross-examination at this time."
"There's one question that has to be answered," asserted Cardona. "I want to know why Tristram left
that front door open. He says he went to call up Selwood Royce. We can check on that later. But the
front door -"
"Was left open so that I could come in," inserted Wingate.
Cardona looked puzzled.
"I had an appointment with Mr. Parchell," explained Wingate. "There is no telephone in the house.
Naturally, when Mr. Parchell sent Tristram out to call up Royce he would have told the servant to leave
the door unlocked for my convenience."
CARDONA appeared mollified. This was a point that he had not gained during his preliminary survey of
Hildrew Parchell's death. While the detective stood deliberating, another man spoke.
This individual was middle-aged, keen-faced, and of a somewhat professional appearance. He had been
introduced to Cardona as Doctor Raymond Deseurre.
"I was Hildrew Parchell's physician," testified Deseurre, in a harsh, but steady voice. "His condition was
serious; one in which a severe shock could easily have caused heart failure. To me, this case is obvious."
"Hildrew Parchell was stricken during Tristram's absence. While I cannot picture the exact
circumstances, it is apparent to me that he must have seized the table and overturned it when he fell from
his bed."
"Your own police surgeon" - Deseurre indicated a man who was standing in a corner, nodding - "will
agree with me that this must be the most logical explanation of Parchell's death. The old man's head must
have struck against the table. He may have been dead at the time; or that blow may have been the final
cause of his decease. In either case, the verdict should be the same. Death through accidental cause."
"Maybe you're right, doctor," admitted Cardona, "but what I don't get is why there was a lighted candle
on the table. There are electric lights in this room."
"But none above the bed, sir," put in Tristram. "Mr. Parchell used to read occasionally; but only for very
short periods. His eyes were unusually strong, sir, and he believed that the candlelight, close by, was
sufficient."
"A claim to which I objected," added Deseurre, emphatically. "But I had enough of arguments with my
patient on the subject of his heart condition. It was useless to add new controversy over the matter of eye
strain, particularly when he had not long to live."
CARDONA made another study of the bed. He was forced to agree that Tristram had shown
remarkable effectiveness in extinguishing a most clangorous blaze. That spoke definitely to the servant's
credit.
Cardona made notations in a notebook; then, in a less challenging tone, he asked a general question.
"Why was every one coming here tonight?" questioned the ace detective. "You, Mr. Wingate; you,
Doctor Deseurre? And why was Selwood Royce supposed to be here?"
"I was coming," replied Wingate, "to receive minor instructions regarding the disposal of Mr. Parchell's
various documents. Hildrew Parchell knew that he did not have long to live. As his attorney, I was to
take charge of his affairs.
"I have letters from him to that effect. I have a duplicate list of all his papers and valuables in his wall safe.
It will be a simple matter to check up on all of his belongings. This was scarcely more than a routine
appointment."
"As for myself," stated Doctor Deseurre, "tonight's appointment was one of my regular calls. Hildrew
Parchell was a patient I visited every evening."
"What about Selwood Royce?" questioned Cardona, turning to Tristram. "Does he come here often?"
"No, sir," replied the servant. "You see, Mr. Royce's father was a friend of Mr. Parchell. All I know, sir,
is that Mr. Parchell seemed anxious to see his friend's son before he died. That was what Mr. Parchell
told me, sir, when he sent me out to make the telephone call -"
Tristram broke off suddenly as a uniformed officer came into the room. Close behind him was a
well-dressed man about thirty years of age, whose face showed concern as he stopped just within the
room.
Cardona needed no introduction. He knew that this must be Selwood Royce.
Without a word, Royce walked over to the bed. He looked beyond and stared solemnly at Hildrew
Parchell's body. Royce's expression was one of deep sadness. While the others watched him in silence,
Royce turned to Tristram and clapped a sympathetic hand upon the servant's shoulder. Tristram
understood; his lips began to quaver.
"YOU are Selwood Royce?" asked Cardona, quietly, as he stepped toward the newcomer.
"Yes," was the reply.
Cardona noted a choke in the single word. He studied Royce's frank solemn countenance. Cardona had
heard of Selwood Royce. The man was a millionaire; his wealth had been left to him by his father.
"This man" - Cardona indicated Tristram - "states that he called you at your home tonight. Is that
correct?"
"It is," replied Royce. "He called me at about nine o'clock."
"And asked you to come in here?"
"Yes. Tristram said that he believed Hildrew Parchell was dying; that it was urgent that I see him. Hildrew
Parchell had been my father's friend. I told Tristram that I would come here at once."
"My home is well out on Long Island. I left promptly and drove straight here. At the door, I met the
policeman who brought me upstairs. He told me that there had been a fire; that Hildrew Parchell was
dead."
Cardona referred to his notes.
"About nine o'clock," mused the detective. "Tristram put out the fire shortly after that. Let me see, Mr.
Wingate, you arrived at about nine-thirty; you, Doctor Deseurre, at about the same time."
"I was late," remarked Wingate. "I should have been here at nine. If I had only arrived before Tristram!"
"I was exactly on time," stated Doctor Deseurre.
"It's not much after ten o'clock right now," declared Cardona, looking from man to man. "Do you think
that Hildrew Parchell could have wanted you all to meet here?"
"I can see no reason why," replied Wingate. "I was Parchell's attorney; Doctor Deseurre, his physician;
Mr. Royce, a friend. We hold nothing in common."
"Mr. Wingate and I," added Deseurre, "had met but once before. That was a month or more ago, when I
chanced to be leaving when he called. It was Tristram who introduced us."
"I have never met either of these gentlemen," stated Royce, looking from Wingate to Deseurre. "In fact, I
had not seen Hildrew Parchell since my father's funeral, five years ago."
It was apparent to Cardona that there was no connection between the three visitors. Tristram was the
one person who knew them all; the three shared belief in the servant's integrity.
Cardona held a brief consultation with the police surgeon; then made an announcement.
"It's death by misadventure, all right," decided the detective. "There won't be any need to hold this man
Tristram. He deserves credit for the way he tried to save his master. You can testify at the inquest,
Tristram. I'd like you there, too, Doctor Deseurre."
"I shall be present also," inserted Wingate, dryly.
"All right," agreed Joe. "I'd like a chance to check things over with you, Mr. Wingate. Just to be sure
nothing is missing from these papers, or the wall safe."
"Very well."
WINGATE was about to leave; Deseurre also, when Cardona stopped them. The detective had another
question.
"What about Hildrew Parchell's affairs?" he questioned. "Anything unusual about them? Did he have any
enemies?"
"None to my knowledge," responded Wingate. "His estate is not a large one; but it is well in order."
"Any heirs?"
"A nephew. Roger Parchell."
"Where is he?"
"In San Francisco. He has not been East in years."
A pause. Neither Deseurre nor Royce had any comment. Again the visitors were about to leave, when
Tristram spoke.
"There was Mr. Hothan, sir," said the servant, looking toward Wingate. "He lived here until a month
ago."
"Hothan?" questioned Cardona.
"Homer Hothan," replied Wingate. "He was Parchell's secretary for a few months. The man was
inefficient. Parchell discharged him."
"What became of Hothan?"
"He went home to Ohio, I believe."
"Whereabouts in Ohio?"
"I don't know."
It was Tristram who supplied the information.
"Mr. Hothan lives in a town called Chalwood," recalled the servant. "Somewhere near Columbus."
Cardona made a note of it. The visitors left. Tristram stood by while Cardona made arrangements for the
removal of the body. Then the detective went downstairs.
At the door, he encountered a new arrival. It was Clyde Burke, reporter for the New York Classic.
"What's the dope, Joe?" questioned Clyde.
"Nothing," returned the detective. "The old gentleman fell out of bed with a heart attack. Tipped over the
table and the place caught fire from a candle that fell over. His servant put out the blaze."
"Well, that's a story. Give me more details."
"Look them over for yourself."
Cardona extended his opened notebook. Clyde began to read the various items. Immediately, the
reporter noted the completeness of Cardona's notes. He saw that the star detective must have suspected
more than accident at the beginning of the inquiry.
"Want to keep the book?" growled Cardona, as Clyde kept on transcribing information. "Say - what are
you going to do? Make a story for the Sunday supplement?"
"No," laughed Clyde. "Just hoping that I can convince the M.E. that this yarn is worth something. All
right, Joe, I've got the details. So long."
Joe Cardona went in one direction; Clyde Burke in the other. The detective, bound for headquarters, felt
positive that his final decision was the correct one that Hildrew Parchell had died by accident.
The reporter held no conclusion whatever. To Clyde Burke, the death of Hildrew Parchell was an oddity.
That gave the case a definite importance; so much so that Clyde stopped at the nearest drug store to put
in a prompt telephone call.
Speaking over the wire, Clyde gave the complete details from his copy of Cardona's notes. That done,
he stuffed the sheet of paper into his coat pocket. Clyde grinned as he went out to the street.
This story would mean but little to the Classic. Joe Cardona had been right in wondering why Clyde had
put down so many details. Clyde Burke had not been acting in his capacity as a reporter when he had
telephoned the facts concerning Hildrew Parchell's death.
Clyde Burke was more than a newspaper reporter. He was also the agent of a hidden master sleuth who
sought traces of crime beneath placid surfaces. It was to that chief that Clyde had forwarded the facts
that he had learned.
The circumstances of Hildrew Parchell's death; the names of those persons with whom the old man had
maintained contact - all were on their way to The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ENTERS
"BURBANK speaking."
"Report -"
The order came in a sinister whisper. The single word was uttered by hidden lips. The Shadow was in his
sanctum, a strange room wherein the bluish rays of a shaded lamp glimmered upon the surface of a
polished table.
Earphones clamped to head, The Shadow was hearing from Burbank, his contact man who kept in touch
with active agents. Burbank's call was bringing the details of Clyde Burke's report.
The Shadow's right hand, beneath the glow of the blue light, was tracing details as his ear received them.
"Report received."
The left hand thrust the earphones across the table. The Shadow's eyes, hidden in darkness, began to
study the names and notations that his hand had inscribed. A whispered laugh sounded in the blackness
beyond the sphere of the blue light.
Like Joe Cardona, The Shadow was considering possibilities. But he was studying the case from a
perspective; in forming his conclusions, he was exacting where the detective had been spontaneous.
Upon a sheet of blank paper, The Shadow inscribed a single word; one that shone in letters of vivid
blue:
Death
Hildrew Parchell had been expecting death. A man of considerable consequence years ago, his illness
摘要：

THETHIRDSKULLMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHBYNIGHT?CHAPTERII.THELAWDECIDES?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWENTERS?CHAPTERIV.WINGATE'SVISITORS?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWCHOOSES?CHAPTERVI.THESILVERSKULL?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOWFIGHTS?CHAPTERVIII.DEATHFROMDARKNESS?CHA...

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