The Star of Delhi s-225

by Maxwell Grant

  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.

  The effect was good, and she added the brownish hue to her arms and hands.

  She was just finished, when the apartment bell announced the Rajah of Lengore.

  Margo met her escort in the apartment lobby. He was as handsome as his photograph, and quite tall.

  His smile of greeting was a bit troubled by sight of Margo's fur coat, but when she explained that she was wearing the Hindu costume, too, he gave a pleased nod. The rajah, himself, was wearing his uniform and a compact turban.

  They stepped into a waiting limousine, and as they rode away together, the rajah produced an array of rings and bracelets for his niece to wear.

  There was an anklet, too, the most expensive item among all the jewelry. Of gold, studded with diamonds and rubies, it was so heavy that when Margo crossed her knees, she found it more comfortable to keep her left foot on the floor, since the band of gold was on her left ankle.

  When they reached their destination, Margo was rather surprised to find it an old-fashioned office building. A man stepped from an elevator to give the Oriental visitors a curious look, but when the rajah announced in slow but perfect English that he was Cranston's friend, the elevator man took them up.

  At the top, Margo saw an elevator door which had a pane of thick bulletproof glass. Peering through, a servant studied the visitors, then opened the door.

  They were ushered into a room of paneled oak, where a crabby old man sat behind a desk on which rested a tray with a half-finished bowl of milk toast. The servant was already helping Margo remove her fur coat, when the old man looked up. The expression of annoyance that Uriah Crome was showing to impress Commissioner Weston, took a very sudden change.

  Open-mouthed, Crome scanned the uniformed Rajah of Lengore, then, let his widening eyes take in Margo from head to foot. The rajah was introducing himself, and announcing that the lady was his niece, which Crome could readily believe.

  Margo's complexion looked about the same hue as the rajah's, and her bizarre Oriental costume revealed a shapeliness that suited the specifications of a Hindu princess. But the feature that overwhelmed Crome, and won him to immediate belief, was the display of jewelry that Margo flashed for his especial benefit.

  The rajah had placed a necklace of emeralds and diamonds around his niece's neck, and those gems made a wonderful splash. Bracelets and rings attracted Crome's down-sweeping eye, and when he saw the anklet, with its sparkle of diamonds and fire of rubies, he drew a long, amazed gasp.

  The bitter flicker to his lips was just a recollection of the half million dollars that he had spent, under forced pressure, for the St
ar of Delhi.

  IF the Rajah of Lengore intended to pawn his niece's gems, and had asked her to wear them here for the effect on Uriah Crome, it was certainly a case of super-salesmanship. Already, Crome was wishing that he could afford to purchase those adornments wholesale.

  Catching the covetous glint in the old man's eye, Margo began to picture herself peeling off layers of jewels and dropping them on Crome's desk, while the rajah would be counting money in return.

  It made her angry at Lamont, and at the rajah, too. Cranston's helping the rajah to sell jewels to Crome was fair enough, but Margo didn't like the idea of being used as an attraction to raise the price. She could imagine how a real Hindu princess would feel if called upon by an avaricious uncle to make a public sacrifice of her personal jewels, to impress an old miser like Crome.

  She intended to tell Lamont what she thought of him, when she met him. Meanwhile, she'd act the part that she was playing, even though it was helping the very cause that she considered detestable.

  Then, as the Rajah of Lengore spoke in a slow, musical tone, Margo was overwhelmed with remorse for having formed so wrong an opinion of Cranston and his Hindu friend.

  The rajah, too, had observed Crome's gaze and was politely telling the old collector that none of his niece's jewels were for sale. Instead, the Rajah of Lengore had come to buy gems from Uriah Crome, and had requested his niece to accompany him, that she might compare with her present adornments whatever items Crome offered.

  Indeed, the rajah's tone implied a doubt that Crome had many jewels that the princess would care to own.

  It was the right way to deal with Crome. Testily, the old collector pressed buttons on his desk and started panels spinning all about the room. Bobbing about like a jack-in-the-box, he pointed his visitors to one display case after another, trying to impress them with his marvelous collection.

  They went from topazes to opals, past shelves that teemed with specimens of turquoise and amethyst. On beyond an array of diamonds, to emeralds and rubies, finally stopping at a case of sapphires. It was there that the rajah made his closest study; he shook his head in disappointment.

  "I had hoped to find the one gem that I wanted," he announced. "The great Star of Delhi."

  Never had any man been taken more off guard than Uriah Crome.

  Margo looked quickly at the old collector, saw his face go as purple as the shelves of sapphires. Crome's lips were wagging, but no words came from them. It was the Rajah of Lengore who spoke.

  "In my land," said the rajah sagely, "we regard no gem as worthy of importance unless men have died in quest of it. Every great ruby can be said to own its color from the blood of those who have warred for its possession. The green of emeralds comes from the grass that grows above the graves of those whose lives were lost in seeking to gain, or keep, the stone they so prized.

  "Seldom has any sapphire brought murder to its owner. But the stars of the sky have now looked down upon six scenes of death. I would like the Star of Delhi, itself, to speak its story, like the stars of the firmament. In my land, we believe in the stars. They have told me that the Star of Delhi was not destroyed -"

  "No, no!" interrupted Crome. "It was cut, I tell you, into six smaller sapphires!"

  "Such could not be," inserted the rajah, while Margo stared, enraptured by his manner. "No man like yourself, Mr. Crome, would have allowed such a crime to happen. Such a crime, I mean, as the ruin of the priceless Star of Delhi. I would only like to see the gem, to know if it could have a price."

  THE rajah's definition of crime was the point that made Crome capitulate. He felt, at last, that he had found a friend in whom he could confide. Weighed down by the secret of the Star's true story, craving to be rid of the purchase that Garmath had forced upon him, Crome staggered to a safe and opened it.

  Not only did he show the rajah the Star of Delhi, he poured out the whole history of Lenfell's swindle and Garmath's double cross. With it, Crome swore that he had known nothing of impending murder until after the deaths had been delivered. Garmath's visit had been his first meeting with the master killer.

  Margo believed him, as did the rajah. Finding them sympathetic, Crome added to his tale of woe.

  "If I sell the Star of Delhi," he said hoarsely, "Garmath may kill me! He knows that I am worried -"

  The telephone bell began to ring. The start that Crome gave convinced Margo that the old man expected a call from Garmath. The Rajah of Lengore was of the same opinion. He stepped close to Crome.

  "Tell Garmath that you are glad you bought the Star," advised the rajah. "Say that all you want is a way out, in case anyone accuses you of owning it."

  "But - how?"

  "Garmath made one replica of the Star of Delhi," returned the rajah. "Ask him to manufacture another. It will be your alibi. You can produce it, upon demand; when it is examined and found to be synthetic, you will be regarded as another dupe, like Lenfell; nothing more."

  His lips tightening in a wise smile, Crome picked up the telephone. His voice firmed as he chatted with Garmath. In the course of conversation, Crome put the request that the rajah had suggested. His call finished, he hung up, still retaining his smile.

  "It will take forty-eight hours," he declared. "Then, Garmath will deliver the replica. After that, I can sell you the Star of Delhi. I shall put the false stone with my other sapphires, where anyone can view it, while I smile. Anyone, including Jan Garmath, should he visit me!"

  Margo thought that the visit was completed, but she was wrong. For the next fifteen minutes, the Rajah of Lengore continued to talk terms with Uriah Crome regarding the future sale of the real Star of Delhi.

  When she left with the rajah, Margo felt nervous. As they rode in their limousine, she was sure that another car was following them.

  A word from the rajah to the chauffeur, and the big car pulled suddenly into an obscure parking place.

  Looking back, Margo saw a car round the corner and roll past. After it came a taxicab that looked very much like Moe Shrevnitz's. Margo turned to speak to the man beside her. Her new friend, the rajah, was gone!

  The cab was slowing, but only for a moment. As it picked up speed, Margo saw blackness within its door, which had opened, and now was closing as if of its own accord. It was Moe's cab, and it had picked up a cloaked passenger, to take him along a new trail.

  Alone in the limousine, Margo Lane, the erstwhile Hindu princess, realized very suddenly that Lamont Cranston couldn't have gone to the Cobalt Club this evening. Instead, he had come to take her to Crome's.

  For Lamont Cranston had played the part of the imaginary Rajah of Lengore; now both - Cranston and the rajah - had merged into the cloaked personality of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XIX. CRIME'S FORCED THRUST

  IN a little boxlike room, Jan Garmath sat at a desk studying an array of gems. He recognized the knock at the door and spoke for his visitor to enter. Dwig Brencott stepped into sight. Without looking up, Garmath used a pair of tweezers to lift a fair-sized ruby and hold it into the light.

  "How do you like it?" queried Garmath. "I fused it from three smaller stones. One good way to dispose of stolen goods at high prices. This work intrigues me, Dwig -"

  "Trouble, chief," Dwig interposed. "Thought I'd better tell you."

  "Is it Sherbrock again?" snarled Garmath. "We've been too lenient with the fellow. Maybe he realizes that we are feeding him well, and keeping him in good health, so they will not believe him should he claim that he was kidnapped."

  "We can put Sherbrock back in circulation soon enough," affirmed Dwig. "He's the fellow to take the rap for all the job's we've pulled. But Sherbrock isn't the trouble. It's Crome."

  Garmath perched his thin chin in his hand and gave Dwig a very dubious stare.

  "Listen, chief," Dwig insisted earnestly. "You've got to take this seriously. Only two nights ago, I tried to trail the Hindu who stopped in at Crome's -"

  "And failed -"

  "Yes," Dwig, conceded, "I failed. But su
ppose The Shadow was around. What if he trailed me back here?"

  Garmath shook his head, as though the argument wearied him.

  "If The Shadow had located us," declared Garmath, "he would have attacked at once. Calm yourself on that point, Dwig. Now - what about Crome?"

  "I called our look-out over there," replied Dwig. "He says that Commissioner Weston just dropped in for a chat with our dear friend, Uriah Crome!"

  There wasn't a flicker of alarm on Garmath's dryish features. Rather, the situation intrigued the master murderer. He drew a watch from his pocket and noted the time; then remarked:

  "Only an hour more -"

  He shrugged, as though a trifle disappointed. Then, gathering his fused gems into a box, Garmath considered the changed situation. He finally explained it, for Dwig's benefit.

  "I had intended to let you deliver the synthetic sapphire that Crome wanted," Garmath said. "Partly as a test; also, so that you could get a good look at his premises. Had he decided to sell the Star of Delhi to the Rajah of Lengore, it would have meant the end of my promise to protect him. I planned to wait and see."

  "And send me to Crome," reminded Dwig, "if you found out he'd double-crossed you."

  "Precisely! His receiving the police commissioner is the equivalent of a double cross. It gives us the privilege of reprisal. Go there at once, Dwig, with your crew, and settle scores with Crome."

  "We're to handle the commissioner, too?"

  "Of course! By this time, Crome is probably telling him the whole story. Bring back all of Crome's jewels, including the Star of Delhi."

  With Dwig, Garmath walked from the tiny room into a larger one. Lights showed a stone-walled passage just ahead. This hide-away was underground. Dwig started out through the passage, then paused.

  "If I pull away the whole crew," he reminded, "the place won't be safe -"

  "Anything unknown is safe," interrupted Garmath testily. "Try to forget The Shadow, Dwig. However, you may leave one man, to answer the signal when you return. Of course" - he nudged toward a narrow stairway that led upward - "I still have Krem. He is worth half a dozen of your men."