The elevator operator wasn't the only one who heard those sounds.
FROM a limousine that had just stopped out front, a tall man in evening clothes was entering the building.
He was Lamont Cranston, coming from a chat with one millionaire jewel collector, to call upon another.
With the head man off The Shadow's list, Uriah Crome was next in line.
The Shadow heard Garmath's last evasive creeps just as they faded, with a quickened touch, from beyond the closing rear door. Before he could snap from Cranston's leisurely pose and move in the rapid style of The Shadow, he was confronted by the elevator man, who, hearing new footsteps from the front, was peering out to see what they meant.
Easing into Cranston's manner, The Shadow nodded to the elevator man and announced himself, saying that he had come to see Mr. Crome. He knew that the name of Cranston would carry weight with the old collector, for, though they had never met, Cranston had sometimes outbid Crome's representatives when they appeared at jewel auctions.
As one collector to another, Crome couldn't afford to entirely ignore Cranston. Within a few minutes, they were chatting with each other over the telephone, and though The Shadow detected a tremolo in Crome's tone, it was one that could have been attributed to his advanced age - as the old man, himself, was smart enough to recognize.
But The Shadow, having heard the creeping below, had quite another explanation for the wavering tone that he heard across the wire. In his turn, he did not drop one whit from Cranston's quiet form of speech; nevertheless, his words made a hard dent on Crome.
The old collector was saying that it was too late for him to receive a visitor; that he would be glad to have Cranston call some other time. Pressing the point, The Shadow set the meeting definitely for the morrow; then he sprang a neat surprise.
"I am calling on behalf of a friend," he stated. "One who is very anxious to meet you, Mr. Crome. I may not be able to come tomorrow, but I would appreciate it if you would receive my friend."
"Of course, of course," interposed Crome, hastily, his voice betraying only a slight touch of its quiver.
"Any friend of yours will be welcome here, Mr. Cranston. But about this friend -"
"He is deeply interested in gems," came Cranston's interruption, "particularly in rare sapphires. He hopes that some well-informed person, like yourself, can give him the advice he needs. Good night, Mr.
Crome."
Upstairs, Uriah Crome was half slumped at his desk, his shaky hand barely able to replace the telephone on its stand. He had an idea who Cranston's friend might be: Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The very thought horrified Crome; he wished with all his might that Jan Garmath had still been around when Cranston's call came through.
Then, gradually, Crome's nerve returned; he managed to force a laugh between his trembling lips. Let Weston come! As Garmath had said, the police were thinking in terms of six small sapphires, not one large gem. He'd talk in terms of small sapphires, too, Crome would, and thus veer the trail still further from himself.
Nevertheless, as he stared at the great Star of Delhi, with its rare radiant streaks gleaming up from the jewel case upon the desk, Uriah Crome could find no happiness in possession of the gem that he had so long coveted.
CHAPTER XVIII. CROME'S WAY OUT
IT was singular, to Margo Lane, the way that Lamont Cranston suddenly lost interest in the Star of Delhi and the chain of murder which the famous gem had caused. For all of Cranston, the police could keep on hunting for six lesser stones that didn't exist, while he kept his own opinions to himself.
That, at least, was Margo's conclusion while she lunched with Lamont. He was so totally indifferent to the case, that when he did glance at the newspaper, he turned to the sporting pages. There he found something that intrigued him. Margo guessed that it had to do with polo.
"Well, well!" exclaimed Cranston. "Another old friend has arrived for the matches. I'll have to drop around and chat with him. Here is his picture."
He passed the newspaper to Margo, who expected to see a photograph of some wealthy polo player from the Argentine, since Cranston was well acquainted with many members of South American teams.
The picture that Margo did see rather amazed her.
She saw a handsome, darkish man who wore a turban; the rest of his attire was a military uniform, well sprinkled with medals. Beneath the picture, she read the name: "Rajah of Lengore."
"Fancy the rajah being in New York," chuckled Cranston. "With all his palaces and possessions you'd suppose he would never leave India. I remember his great jungle estate, so large that we were lost for three days while on a tiger hunt."
With sharp gaze, Margo tried to pierce Cranston's impassive front. When looks failed, she tried words.
"The rajah has many jewels, I suppose?"
"What rajah hasn't?" queried Cranston calmly. "I saw his rubies, the real Oriental kind, as large as marbles. Emeralds, too, and diamonds -"
"What about sapphires, Lamont?"
"Sapphires?" Cranston gave an indulgent headshake. "Too common. Only the rajah's servants would wear them. He might use them for coat buttons."
Cranston was reaching for the newspaper again. Margo couldn't curb her patience any longer.
"What about sapphires like the Star of Delhi?" she demanded. "Wouldn't such stones interest this all important rajah?"
The question actually took away some of Cranston's calm, but Margo recognized that his sudden interest must also be a pose. He'd just been waiting for her to bring up the question that was already in his mind, and he was letting her take the credit for it.
"A real thought, Margo!" Cranston exclaimed. "I'll speak to the rajah about the Star of Delhi, and tell him that it was your idea. He'll be so pleased that he'll want to meet you. So there's your reward, Margo - a meeting with a real rajah."
During the afternoon, while still waiting to hear further from Cranston, Margo tried to convince herself that rajahs meant nothing in her life; but despite such efforts, she had to concede that a meeting with the handsome Rajah of Lengore would be an interesting experience.
When Cranston called up, later, and said he'd arranged it for early in the evening, Margo couldn't control the enthusiasm that she felt.
"The rajah will call for you," Cranston told her. "By the way, I sent a package over to your apartment, along with a note. Sorry I can't see you, or go along, this evening. The commissioner insists upon my meeting him at the club."
AT her apartment, Margo found the note and the package, and didn't know whether to be irked or intrigued.
It seemed that Cranston had arranged some scheme with the rajah that probably involved the Star of Delhi, though the note did not specify it. At any rate, the rajah was going somewhere with his niece, a Hindu princess.
Not having a niece who was a Hindu princess, the rajah had been stumped, until Cranston elected Margo for the part. So the package contained the costume that the girl was to wear, and with it, Cranston had sent along a bottle of make-up dye which he guaranteed would furnish Margo with a delicately dusky complexion.
At first Margo rebelled; then, having intended to get dressed for the evening anyway, she decided to try the Hindu costume. Having put on what there was of it, she took a look at the effect in a full-length mirror. Except that it made her feel like a prospective guest at an artists' ball, Margo rather liked it.
The costume had very ornate slippers, a pert jacket studded with real jewels, and a split skirt that gave the effect of bloomers. The skirt was filmy, even away from the light, and though not exactly daring, wouldn't do for street wear in New York.
However, Margo decided that a Hindu princess would probably be privileged to wear a fur coat in a cool clime like America, so she proceeded to dye her face and neck.