The Shadow was picking out pearly spheres and placing them aside with a choice that caused Copley to nod approvingly. After a short while, The Shadow paused, looked quietly at the pearl salesman and questioned:
“What about the replicas? I understood that they were your specialty.”
“Saved them for last,” chuckled Copley, producing a box and opening it. “Glass bubbles, filled with liquid ammonia and coloring matter, mostly from fish scales. But I’m leaving it to you to give an opinion.”
IN the box that Copley thrust forward was a most remarkable display of imitation pearls. Even to close inspection, they surpassed the actual river pearls and culture pearls that the man from Cincinnati had first shown.
Varied shades: touches of crimson glow, bluish hues and even tinges of glimmering blackness — these were the features that gave lustre to the almost perfect imitations. These were more than ordinary specimens of clever workmanship; they were replicas of famous pearls.
“Copied from originals,” explained Copley. “You’d have to lay them alongside the real ones to know the difference. The most valuable of real pearls are globular; that gives us a break when it comes to reproducing them.
“If you’re putting on a display for the public, Mr. Arnaud, you can label these and make them the center exhibit. There’s the black pearl owned by the Sultan of Surakarta; this one is the famous Siamese teardrop.
“Name any famous pearl. Chances are I’ve got its copy right here in this batch. It’s a business with me, Mr. Arnaud.”
“This one?” questioned The Shadow, quietly. He had already laid aside four or five.
“That’s the Nile Pearl,” replied Copley. “Copy of an Egyptian specimen. You’ll want that one; look at the delicate green tinge.”
“I shall take it; and this one?”
“The famous Blue Pearl. Bought anonymously from a French duke about fifteen years ago. They say an American took it and paid plenty. It was copied before the duke sold it. That’s one item there’s not much call for. Maybe it’s not famous enough — Still, it’s a dandy—”
“I shall take it. Also this one, which I recognize as an excellent imitation of an original that came from Bombay. Add them to the others that I first selected. Then give me the total.”
Copley produced pencil and paper; he figured the amount at six hundred dollars. As he presented the bill, he offered an explanation:
“They’re actually cheap at that price, Mr. Arnaud. You’ve picked the beauties; some of those mussels look as good as oyster pearls. Don’t forget that those replicas are sweet ones. If you showed that lot to an expert and told him they were real, he’d have to make a close inspection before—”
The Shadow had arisen. From his pocket he was drawing a roll of currency that made Copley pause and gape. Peeling off six bills of one hundred dollar denomination, The Shadow added a fifty and passed the money to Copley.
“I am also paying the expenses of your trip,” he stated quietly. “Probably you included it in the price; but it took you from other duties. Place my purchases in one box.”
Copley pocketed the money and began to pack the pearls eagerly. He remarked that he would be able to catch an early train to Cincinnati, a fact that he appreciated.
A slight smile appeared upon the lips of Henry Arnaud.
DEPARTING from the hotel, The Shadow returned to the sanctum. There he opened the box beneath the bluish light. The imitation pearls showed with added lustre. From them, The Shadow removed the replicas that he had purchased with the Blue Pearl. He had bought those merely to cover the fact that he wanted one in particular.
The pearls that remained in the box numbered a full two dozen, with the false Blue Pearl conspicuous.
The others, however, formed an excellent variety. Odd-shaped river pearls and culture pearls contrasted with sheer imitations. Yet these latter looked resplendent. Clark Copley had been right when he had admired The Shadow’s choice.
Going to another portion of the sanctum, The Shadow sat before a mirror and began a change of physiognomy. Aided with articles of make-up, he changed the contours of his visage. A masklike, thin-lipped countenance replaced the face of Henry Arnaud. Only a hawkish trace remained as a reminder of the former features.
AGAIN, The Shadow left the sanctum. Evening had settled; street lamps were aglow when a tall figure strolled leisurely into the lobby of the exclusive Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed as he delivered a message.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” said the attendant. “Commissioner Barth called to state that he would meet you at Mr. Walpin’s at nine o’clock.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged The Shadow, in a quiet tone.
Passing through the lobby, The Shadow observed a large clock that registered half past seven. He went into a telephone booth and made a call. A quiet voice answered:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to Marsland,” said The Shadow quietly. “Time set. Nine-thirty to nine-forty. Buffalo Mail.”
“Instructions received.”
The Shadow strolled from the telephone booth. Divesting his overcoat, he revealed evening clothes beneath. He gave the cloak to the attendant at the check room, along with his hat.
“There is a package in the overcoat pocket,” he remarked. “Be careful of it.”
“Yes, Mr. Cranston.”
The Shadow smiled as he strolled toward the grillroom. Here at the Cobalt Club he was recognized as Lamont Cranston, a globe-trotting millionaire, friend of Acting Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth.
What a revelation it would be should club members learn that the real Lamont Cranston was absent from New York; that this being who wore the millionaire’s languid guise was none other than The Shadow!
CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW’S HOUR
AT precisely quarter past eight, The Shadow strolled from the lobby of the Cobalt Club. His gait was more leisurely than ever; the doorman took it as a sign that Lamont Cranston had dined well.
A limousine curved over from across the street as the figure of Lamont Cranston appeared upon the sidewalk. A chauffeur stepped forth and bowed as he opened the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston.”
This was Stanley, Lamont Cranston’s chauffeur. Like others, he thought The Shadow was his real master.
Even Stanley did not know of the league between The Shadow and the actual Lamont Cranston that helped The Shadow to masquerade during the millionaire’s absence.
The Shadow entered the limousine. Stanley took the wheel and drove slowly away, expecting orders through the speaking tube. They came. The Shadow, in the quiet tone of Cranston, ordered the chauffeur to take him to an address near Riverside Drive.
It was just half past eight when the limousine arrived at its destination. Stanley sat stolid at the wheel, a habit to which he had been trained. He did not hear the door open; nor did he see the figure that emerged.
During the ride, The Shadow had opened a locked bag that he kept in the limousine. From it he had taken garments of black. He had doffed-silk hat and overcoat; in their place he was wearing his cloak and slouch hat.
Stealthily, invisible in darkness, The Shadow moved along a secluded stretch of sidewalk. He glided through a passage behind a low, old-fashioned apartment building. He reached a wall; from there, his course led upward.
A window, a projection, finally a grilled balcony. The Shadow came outside a second-story window that marked a darkened room. He wedged a flat length of steel between the portions of the sash. The window yielded noiselessly. The Shadow entered.
This was the rear room of a corner apartment. It had two windows at the back; one at the side. The Shadow’s blotched shape formed a silhouette as he entered; then he was totally within the darkness of the room.