“Not yet,” declared Cardona. “I want to give him the whole dope, Mr. Armsbury. I told my theory to Mr. Matson. He and I were alone at the time. So we came down here at once. When I make my report, I want it to be a clincher. I wish you could remember the name of that warehouse.”
“I have it!” Armsbury sprang to his feet with agility. “Do you remember it now, Martin? I marked that name in my memoranda book — the one in the table drawer—”
The old man pointed as he spoke. His face was turned toward Martin Havelock. Cardona and Matson were following the direction of the old man’s finger. They did not see the motion of Armsbury’s lips.
Havelock alone caught that. He understood. Nonchalantly, the young man dropped his hands into his coat pockets.
CECIL ARMSBURY strode across the room. Cardona and Matson followed him. The old man yanked open a desk drawer. He reached in and glanced over his shoulder, smiling.
“Here it is” — Armsbury was looking at Joe Cardona. His gaze turned to Havelock — “the very thing we want to—”
As he broke the sentence, Armsbury turned. In his hand was a short-barreled revolver. He swung the weapon directly at Joe Cardona’s breast. At the same time, Martin Havelock made a sidewise spring.
His hand, too, had drawn a gun. He had his finger on the trigger.
“Up with them!” snarled Havelock.
Joe Cardona was too stupefied to do other than obey. Handley Matson followed the detective’s action.
Bowing, old Cecil Armsbury pointed to his nephew.
“This gentleman will take charge of you,” he said. “As a man of crime, I am a mere tyro. Perhaps you have heard of my nephew, Mr. Cardona. Under another name than that of Martin Havelock—”
Cardona was staring at the young man with the gun. He saw the fiendish sneer that had grown on Havelock’s lips. Yet he could not place the crook until Armsbury’s next words brought astonishment.
“Better known,” smirked the old villain, “as Duke Larrin.”
“Duke Larrin!” exclaimed Cardona.
“Yes,” snarled Havelock. “That’s who I am — Duke Larrin. I’ve been working this town of yours and you’ve been too dumb to know it. So you’re Joe Cardona, eh? Well — there’s a bunch of friends of mine who’ll be glad to meet you.”
Cecil Armsbury was depriving Joe Cardona of his revolver. The old swindler was chuckling. He urged Cardona and Matson toward the fireplace; Havelock accompanied the movement with a gesture of his revolver. Armsbury, carrying Cardona’s revolver, leaped ahead.
“As Duke Larrin’s uncle,” chortled the old fiend, “I am worthy of my nephew. It was for him that I provided a very excellent headquarters which has failed to attract your notice, friend Cardona.
“Allow me” — Armsbury was pressing the switch — “to conduct you to our lair. It is the resting place of Senwosri, the son of Amenemhe. He is dead — poor Senwosri — but he shall have company. He came dead from the Egyptian Museum; you have come living from that same place. Let the living join the dead!”
Armsbury cackled gleefully. Martin Havelock stepped aboard the elevator and descended. Cecil Armsbury remained alone; but he and the gun he held were a sufficient threat. The elevator came up empty. Armsbury forced Cardona and Matson aboard. The lift began to descend.
“My nephew will be awaiting you,” cackled Armsbury. “He will take charge until I join you!”
Cardona and Matson, staring upward, saw the gloating face of the fiend. Then came darkness as the descending elevator carried its prisoners to the crypt below.
CHAPTER XXI. LIVING AND DEAD
MIDNIGHT. Duke Larrin sat in the center of the crime crypt. Grouped about him were the privileged crooks who had come to this underground vault.
Brodie Brodan sat with gloating face and bristling eyebrows. Fingers Keefel wore a malicious smile upon his crafty face. Bozo Griffin and Fritz Fursch were standing in a corner of the crypt. Seated on the floor between this pair of thugs were the three prisoners, their hands bound behind their backs.
Joe Cardona — Handley Matson — Cliff Marsland. The trio found no pleasure in their company. Each knew that he was facing doom and that two others were due to perish with him.
The crime crypt harbored another person: Cecil Armsbury. He was standing behind his nephew, grinning as sponsor of insidious crime. To him, this crypt was a legacy which he had given to a deserving heir.
Cecil Armsbury was proud of the power which Martin Havelock, alias Duke Larrin, had come to wield.
“Where is Croaker?”
This was the question with which Havelock opened the proceedings.
“Not here yet,” asserted Fingers Mannick. “He’ll be through. No reason why he should be on time tonight.”
Brodie Brodan chuckled at the jest.
“Shall I bring in Sinker Hargun?” he questioned.
“Yes,” affirmed Havelock. “He is one of us. Let the mob remain on guard. We shall talk with them later. They are to play their part in future crime.”
Brodie Brodan went to the door to the corridor. He opened it and summoned Sinker Hargun. The gang lieutenant joined the criminal assemblage.
“You all know me,” announced Martin Havelock, his voice resounding through the crypt. “I’m Duke Larrin. That’s the name I go under. This crypt is my headquarters. From here we have put through successful crime. There is more to be done.
“No dumb dicks are going to cross us. Neither are any stools that work for The Shadow. We’re going to blot out the ones we’ve already got — and a third man with them. That’s settled. When Croaker Mannick arrives, we’ll let him do the wiping, like he did with three others.”
Havelock turned toward Cardona as he spoke. His lips snarled the names of the three men whom the fiends of the crime crypt had marked for death.
“Perry Trappe. Tyler Bogart. Brisbane Calbot.” Havelock laughed. “They’re the ones we blotted out — and you three are due to follow.”
He turned and faced his henchmen. Rising, Havelock waved his arm toward his uncle. Cecil Armsbury’s countenance was a gloating one.
“This,” stated Havelock, “is the silent partner. Cecil Armsbury. The man who built this crypt. The one who planned our crimes. He has reclaimed articles which might have exposed his past. Through his cunning, we have also gained fabulous wealth. He is the man who showed the way to obtain the mummy case of Senwosri, which is worth—”
Havelock paused. Armsbury’s chuckle took up the tale.
“A quarter of a million,” was the old man’s statement.
Eager gasps came from the crooks as they heard these astounding words. Duke Larrin’s aids were beginning to realize the mammoth proportions of this crime ring. Martin Havelock, however, maintained a calm demeanor. He knew the truth. Cecil Armsbury had not told one half the reputed value contained within the mummy case of Senwosri.
“The jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad.” Cecil Armsbury was checking as he spoke to Fingers Keefel.
“The golden panel from the Temple of Heaven. The sacred scroll from the Kaaba in Mecca. Those were fakes which needed to be destroyed. You performed that work, I am told. You have my thanks.
“With the mummy case of Senwosri came the antiquities which I once sold to the Egyptian Museum. That was your work” — Armsbury had turned to Brodie Brodan and Sinker Hargun — “and it was well done. Those antiquities were fakes — clever ones, but liable to detection. They are to be destroyed.”
“I placed them in the treasure room,” reminded Martin Havelock, in an undertone. He meant the compartment at the end of the crypt.
Cecil Armsbury nodded. The old man was gloating as he looked toward Handley Matson. The curator of the Egyptian Museum was aghast at the news which he had just heard.