Shadow 292 - Three Stamps of Death 06-01-45, The by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street and Smith
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

XI.

WHATEVER Caradoc’s purpose in such a high-priced purchase, he lost no time in making the most of it. Among the accoutrements of the dilapidated shop was a small gas stove in an alcove behind a ragged curtain. On it was a kettle, steaming steadily as though perpetually preparing tea.

Over the spout of this kettle, Caradoc held the three envelopes, at the same time darting glances out through the half-drawn curtain. His quick eyes not only watched the shop, but kept tally on the stamps, noting the exact moment when their gum began to loosen. Then, deftly, the old dealer drew the paper away from the stamps, so that the strain was on the envelopes, not on the stamps themselves.

To Caradoc, the envelopes meant nothing. He wasn’t interested in original covers, present-dated, bearing specimens of an obsolete issue. Stepping out into the shop, he contemptuously disposed of the envelopes in a waste basket. He laid the three stamps on a felt pad.

Next, from a tin strong box carefully hidden on a high shelf under the counter ledge, Caradoc produced an object that looked like an elongated wallet. It was a stock book. When opened, it showed pages bearing a series of shallow cross-pockets, all with stamps protruding. The book was interleaved with transparent paper so that stamps on opposite pages would not catch.

The pages themselves were lettered. Caradoc put Gary’s stamps in a pocket under B. Then, closing the stock book he pressed its button catch. The stock book then went into Caradoc’s inside pocket, which seemed to have been specially tailored for it.

Switching his skull cap for an equally disreputable derby, Caradoc turned off the gas stove. He shambled from the shop, locking the door behind him. It was ten minutes since Gary had left, but Caradoc apparently was taking no chances on his customer’s return. He became very cautious as he neared the bottom of the stairs.

There, Caradoc looked around a corner of the stairway and out to the street, his quick eyes searching for intruding figures. Seeing none, the old man took a few steps downward; then halted abruptly.

What stopped Caradoc was the tinkle of glass from somewhere up above. Tilting his head warily, he started up again, reached the top and halted.

Caradoc’s guess was right. The breaking glass had signified the demolition of the pane in his own door. From down the hallway, Caradoc felt the cool breeze from an open window and recognized the route by which invaders had entered.

During long moments Caradoc hesitated, his bony hand clutching the broad pocket that contained his precious stock book. There was nothing pitiful about the old man’s expression; it showed avarice.

Caradoc had balked these invaders. In his pocket he held the stamps he really prized and his cash box was now a paltry possession, considering that he had paid out the vast proportion of its contents to Gary.

But rather than let these invaders get away with anything, Caradoc crept toward his door. Discretion demanded that he shouldn’t show himself, but he was intent upon getting a look at the thieves.

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