Part 7 (1/2)
”We should see Dorn at once,” insisted Brendle. ”It means a lot to both of us, Yvonne. If he really intends to finance the rice lands, he might pay more than fifty thousand dollars -”
”Or less,” put in Talborn. ”But don't worry, Brendle. Whatever comes from the property will go toward paying the money that Carland owed you.”
”I'm sorry,” apologized Brendle. ”I only thought -”
”We know what you thought,” interposed Talborn. ”Carland stuck you with those swamp acres, Brendle, and you want Yvonne to help you get rid of them.”
”An outrageous accusation, Talborn.”
Andy arose, to come between the pair. As he urged Brendle toward the door, Andy supplied a statement that soothed his own feelings as much as Brendle's.
”Don't worry about Talborn,” Andy told Brendle. ”At least you stand to be a loser because of Carland's death. So Talborn can't put you in the cla.s.s of a suspected murderer, as he did with me.”
As he turned back to look at Talborn, Andy noted a surprised expression on the man's face, as though Talborn, for the first time, realized that Andy belonged in the same category as Salter and Hedwin.
Yvonne was rising from her chair; she ignored Talborn as she went through the door. Both Andy and Brendle followed, leaving Talborn to his own accusations.
”We'll go to see Dorn right now,” declared Andy as they started down the stairs. ”We'll put the proposition to him squarely and see if he wants to buy those rice fields.”
It didn't occur to Andy that others might already be on the way to visit Jonathan Dorn; men whose ways were dark and deadly, whose propositions were those of primitive law.
CHAPTER XIII. FIENDS OF THE FLAME.
NIGHT lights and the sounds of evening were puzzling to The Shadow as he stared toward the windows of his hotel room. He could not understand the lights at all, for he expected daylight. He could recall a battle, which he had followed up with an incomplete pursuit. Then he had dragged himself away to rest; and, considering his weariness, he should have slept past dawn.
But it was still night, and, more puzzling still, he was wearing his black cloak, a most serious oversight.
It wasn't good policy for Kent Allard to return to a hotel room in Mexico City, clad in a garb that might create a panic among superst.i.tious employees. It would be understandable, perhaps, if this happened to be New Orleans and The Shadow had a.s.sumed the character of Lamont Cranston, which in itselfpreserved his actual ident.i.ty.
Suddenly the answer broke through. This was New Orleans. Mexico City was a thing of the past, despite the fact that The Shadow had battled Aztecs quite recently. Yes, this was New Orleans; even though the city lights were still confusing, sounds told The Shadow where he was. He could hear the calliope of a river s...o...b..at wheezing out its ceaseless music.
Rolling from the bed, The Shadow moved unsteadily toward a mirror. His cloak dropped from his shoulders, the slouch hat fell from its folds. Finding a light, The Shadow turned it on and looked at his face. He saw the hawkish features of Lamont Cranston, not the gaunt face of Kent Allard.
The Shadow laughed, his low tone mirthless. He was Cranston for the present, but he could not recollect his recent adventures. Pressing his hand against the side of his aching head, The Shadow began to understand.
He had taken a fall during the fight and must have received a brain concussion. He knew the effects from old. Fortunately, the result was wearing off.
Then, as The Shadow turned from the mirror, his head whirled anew. He couldn't be Cranston; he must be Allard, because, facing him, were two stolid Xincas who stood like patient sentinels.
Those Xincas served Kent Allard, not Lamont Cranston. Their very presence caused The Shadow to stare from them to the mirror, doubting his own eyes, until the Xincas spoke.
They were using their own language, which The Shadow understood, telling him of new drumbeats that had penetrated to their remote domain in Guatemala, carrying the tale that the cult of Xitli was again alive.
These two Xincas, The Shadow's own servants, had smuggled themselves to New Orleans, to bring their chief the news.
As the Xincas spoke, The Shadow recalled that he had given them such an order. But he had expected to contact them at another hotel, where he went daily, as Allard. Not having found him there, the Xincas, through ways peculiar to themselves, had managed to trace The Shadow in his guise of Cranston.
The Shadow was thinking clearly, rapidly, by the time those facts had been recounted. He opened the door of the hotel room, found a newspaper in the hall. It wasn't today's newspaper by The Shadow's calculation. It was tomorrow's!
Therewith, The Shadow realized that he had spent a full twenty-four hours in a semiconscious state.
Hours that should have been devoted to further investigation, for the newspaper headlined the mysterious murder of James Carland.
Scanning the columns, The Shadow learned how far the police had missed the truth, for Yvonne's description of the hatchet killers was scarcely mentioned. Turning the pages to read the final paragraphs of the murder story, The Shadow came upon a minor item that most eyes would have missed.
It simply stated that the yacht Miramar was to arrive at Lake Pontchartrain; but the news was weighty to The Shadow. He knew that the Miramar belonged to Jonathan Dorn, with whom Carland had dealings.
Considering the riddle of Carland's death - namely, why he had been slated for murder - The Shadow found a partial answer. The menace which doomed Carland might now apply to Dorn!
Seizing hat and cloak, The Shadow bundled them across his arm. Followed by the Xincas, he went down a stairway, out through an obscure exit from the hotel, to the almost deserted parking lot where he kept his car. A few minutes later, The Shadow and his companions were whizzing northward along Ca.n.a.l Street, the wide, main thoroughfare of New Orleans.
It was better than a tip-off to police headquarters, that pace set by The Shadow. Traffic whistles shrilled as the car roared by, its mad speed forcing other vehicles to the curb. Attracted by the whistles, police cars took up the chase, until it seemed that half the New Orleans force was on The Shadow's trail.
But the cloaked driver outraced them, even slackening at times, to make sure they did not lose his course. The threat that loomed ahead was one wherein The Shadow might need all the aid that he could muster.
ABOARD his yacht, the Miramar, Jonathan Dorn was seated in his cabin, going over letters that he had received from James Carland. Hearing a knock at the door, Dorn covered the correspondence, and testily demanded: ”Who's there?”
The door opened and a pale secretary inserted his face. He was hesitant when he saw the glower on Dorn's heavy-jowled features. The secretary was greatly in awe of Dorn; ordinarily, be would have retired at the financier's growl.
”I'm busy, Nevil,” boomed Dorn. ”Don't you remember my order? I told you not to disturb me until Carland arrives.”
”But it's about Mr. Carland -”
”What about Mr. Carland? Have you heard from him? Isn't he coming here this evening?”
”No, sir.” For once, Nevil was firm. ”I think you'd better read this, Mr. Dorn.”
He advanced and placed a newspaper on Dorn's desk. When the financier read the headlines that concerned Carland's death, he broke into a fit of rage, which he directed toward Nevil, who was the only person available.
”Get out!” stormed Dorn. ”I'll call you when I need you. What does it matter to me, if Carland is dead?”
He paused, while Nevil darted through the door. Then, almost to himself, Dorn added: ”Perhaps it proves - all these.”
By ”all these,” Dorn meant the letters that lay on his desk. He began to handle them again, as if they were priceless doc.u.ments. He was stroking his chin, smiling to himself, half pleased, half doubtful, when the door opened again.
Dorn did not hear it, for his attention was attracted by the sound of sirens that were coming toward the lake front, where the yacht was docked.
The door closed with a click. Dorn turned about angrily, expecting to see Nevil. Instead, his jowlish face froze itself, agape, as his eyes viewed three intruders. They were men with faces as stony as the crude hatchets which they carried; squatly men with sloping foreheads; savages attired in jungle garb.
With a sharp cry, Dorn came to his feet. He was grabbing for the desk drawer where he kept his revolver; with the other hand, he was seizing the precious Carland correspondence. Dorn's fingers did not even grasp the handle of the drawer. The Aztecs had released their hatchets with short, choppy swings.
The stone weapons buried their crude cutting edges deep into Jonathan Dorn. One ax found his skull, another his neck, while the third drove to his heart. As Dorn sprawled, scattering the sheaf of letters, the Aztecs bounded forward in rubbery fas.h.i.+on and tugged their weapons from the victim's body.
Dorn's death, at least, was merciful, for it was very swift. Each of the axes had struck with sufficient force to kill him. But the Aztecs were not yet through. Ignoring the arriving police sirens as things which could not concern them, they produced small, bomb-like objects and flung them against the desk.