Part 7 (2/2)

These were new weapons, provided by their master, Xitli, and the effect exceeded the expectations of the Aztecs. The objects were actually bombs, of an incendiary type, that broke instantly into gus.h.i.+ng flame, which spurted throughout the cabin.

By the time the Aztecs were safely through the door, Dorn's body was the center of a miniature inferno.

Fiery tongues gulped the Carland letters and ignited the desk, threatening to dispose of its contents, also.

Racing for the yacht's deck, the Aztecs encountered Nevil and members of the crew, who had heard the roar and now saw the raging flames that issued from the cabin. The wild chant of the Aztecs, the anthem that marked them as servants of Xitli, did more than drown the cackle of the flames. It brought a horde of other stony men into sight, from lurking spots about the deck.

Nevil and the other unfortunates were diving for shelter that they could not find, with members of the murderous tribe close after them, when a mighty taunt was delivered from the forward deck, rising to a challenging crescendo that made the Aztecs halt.

They had heard that mirth the night before. It signified a lone foeman, the only one in all their experience who had out-dealt them in their game of quick-delivered death.

The laugh of The Shadow brought vengeful howls from the Aztecs. The followers of Xitli remembered those of their tribe that they had carried from the battle of the night before. Nevil and the others were forgotten.

As a barrage preliminary to their attack, the Aztecs flung more of the incendiary bombs. The Shadow wheeled back to cover as the deadly sh.e.l.ls broke and spewed flame everywhere. Leaping for the gaps, the Aztecs were upon him with their axes, but swift though their swings were, the stabs of The Shadow's guns could not be beaten.

Wild savages sprawled, their hatchets flying wide. The Shadow had beaten off the brunt of that attack, but he knew the wily ways of the Aztecs. Other men of Xitli had reached the superstructure of the Miramar, and were poising for long throws. They looked like howling demons amid the flames which they had produced - great sheets of fire that now enveloped the yacht.

The Shadow's only refuge was the bow of the boat. He reached it ahead of flying axes. The axes cleaved the deck behind him and stayed there, waiting for men who were coming, with long leaps, to regain them.

Against that horde, even The Shadow's guns were not sufficient; but his reinforcements had arrived.

Police were on the dock, shooting at the savage demons who were clearly outlined by the flames. Some of the Aztecs jolted in midair, sprawled on the deck when they struck it. The Shadow, coolly picking targets, was handling the foemen that the police bullets missed.

Though Dorn was dead, The Shadow had saved Nevil and the crew of the Miramar, for they had dived overboard to escape the h.e.l.l-heat that now possessed the yacht. With his own guns, backed by those of the deploying police, The Shadow had his chance to exterminate the tribe of Xitli. All that saved the murderous Aztecs was the thing of their own making: the fire that raged along the deck of the Miramar. Even the power of Xitli did not grant them immunity from flames. They gave up their thrust toward The Shadow and left the yacht in two directions, some diving to the water, others leaping for the dock. Even the bullet-riddled members of the band were capable of fight. Seeing them coming, still alive, the police wisely dropped away, hoping to clip them as they pa.s.sed.

Then the Aztecs were gone, beyond the revealing range of the flames. With fire sweeping toward him, The Shadow dived from the bow of the Miramar and disappeared into the lake. The police controlled the scene, but their work consisted of simple task; that of helping Nevil and the crew of the Miramar, who were floundering in the lake.

Farther along the sh.o.r.e, in the sheltering darkness of a pier, The Shadow came dripping from the water, to find his Xincas waiting. They had started to the aid of their chief, only to be driven off by the flames.

Not wanting to be mistaken for Aztecs, they had wisely slid from sight of the police.

From a car which had arrived amidst the strife, other witnesses watched the burning of the Miramar. One was Eugene Brendle; he was gasping as he viewed the scene. To Brendle, this meant the death of Jonathan Dorn, a man he had never met.

Brendle was declaring something very obvious: that the death of Dorn must be connected with the murder of Carland; that both crimes were certainly the work of an enemy who had a double grudge against both victims.

To Yvonne Carland, the horror of the scene was almost as great as the terror of her uncle's death. Yet, through her numbed brain drilled the thought that at last her story of strange hatchet men would be believed, for those very creatures had tonight revealed themselves amid the flames.

Most stunned of all was Andy Ames. His theories were utterly destroyed. He knew that he had been mistaken during the battle on the Amazonia; that Yvonne had been entirely correct in her description of the strife at the apartment.

The men with hatchets were not the fighters who served The Shadow, for Andy had seen the cloaked warrior engaged in combat with the Aztec throng.

From somewhere, vaguely, came the strident tone of a departing laugh. It told that The Shadow, alone, could solve the riddle of the Aztecs, just as he had proven himself the one opponent who could make them taste defeat!

CHAPTER XIV. MINIONS OF MURDER.

MORNING spread terror throughout New Orleans. The destruction of the Miramar and the death of its owner, Jonathan Dorn, presaged the beginning of new, and more fearful, events.

The city was in a state of siege against a horde within its gates. Even by daylight, persons feared to walk through parks or isolated areas, dreading the menace of squatly killers - strange, stony-faced men who might have come from Mars.

All day, the police were searching for the Aztecs. They did not use that term to describe the a.s.sa.s.sins; the police simply called them ”hatchet killers.” By evening, announcement was made that the search had been narrowed to the river front; though a rather large area, nevertheless, the news allowed people to breathe more easily.

The waterfront was always a section where anything might happen, and sooner or later, the law could find any culprits who were hiding there. But it didn't occur to anyone to question why the police were sosure that the Aztecs were near the river. The simple answer was that the police had not uncovered the killers anywhere else.

It had not occurred to them that the Aztecs might be living in the colossal new Mayan pyramid that dominated the New Orleans skyscape. There had been trouble at the museum a while before, but since then, the place seemed amply protected. More important, in police estimate, was the episode of the Amazonia.

The police now believed the testimony of the captured Cajun: that squatly men of an unknown race had started the battle on the docked steams.h.i.+p. Hence, the waterfront was the place to look for them.

At dusk, Fitzhugh Salter stopped at the Hotel Luzane, where Professor Hedwin was a guest. Salter tried to call Hedwin's room, but learned that the professor was asleep and could not be disturbed. Hedwin, it seemed, had picked up the Mexican custom of taking a siesta every afternoon.

With a smug smile, Salter left word that he was dining out, and would call the professor later.

But Salter did not go to dinner; instead, he returned to the Mayan Museum. There, in furtive fas.h.i.+on, the curator unlocked the big front door and stole into his own preserves, like a prowling thief.

Despite his stealth, Salter was observed by a watcher across the street - a stooped man, who repressed a cackly laugh. The watcher was Professor Hedwin.

Waiting until a c.h.i.n.k of light appeared from Salter's office window, Hedwin crept into the thickened darkness in a fas.h.i.+on much stealthier than Salter. Hedwin was using a system that he had learned while traversing Mexican jungles, where safety often depended upon complete stealth.

Meanwhile, Andy Ames and Yvonne Carland were dining together, a third person with them. The third person was Eugene Brendle, but the contractor was not having dinner. Instead, he was talking about the deaths of James Carland and Jonathan Dorn.

”We are both losers, Yvonne,” declared Brendle, moodily. ”Whoever had it in for your uncle and Dorn, certainly hurt us, too. Evidently, all the correspondence concerning the rice land was lost when the yacht burned.”

”But I have to raise fifty thousand dollars, somehow,” insisted Yvonne. ”I owe you the money, Mr.

Brendle.”

”Your uncle owed it to me,” corrected Brendle, ”and after all, he did give me security, though I was a fool to take it. So I'll have to bear the brunt of it, Yvonne. Next week, when the money comes due, I'll simply become the owner of a lot of salt gra.s.s that n.o.body wants.”

”Won't someone else buy it?”

”I don't think so. Your uncle used some sales pressure on Cranston, but I think it was just talk. What's more, I haven't seen Cranston since that reception at the museum.”

Glancing at his watch, Brendle arose. He went to a telephone in the corner of the private dining room and made a call, but received no answer.

”I was to meet Talborn, for dinner,” he said. ”Both of us were sorry about our little quarrel. But I can't seem to get hold of him. He was supposed to be home, but he isn't. Well, I suppose I'll find him at one of his many hangouts. Looking for him will give me an appet.i.te.” When Brendle had gone, the conversation s.h.i.+fted. As they finished dinner, nearly an hour later, Andy and Yvonne began to discuss The Shadow. Both were agreed that the black-cloaked fighter was the one person who might uncover the missing Aztecs. In that surmise, they were one hundred percent correct.

AT that precise moment, The Shadow was entering the top floor of the Mayan Museum, coming down from the roof promenade. He could hear the low chant of voices.

Placing his suction cups beneath his cloak, he advanced to the door of the throne room. The door was ajar; peering through the crack, The Shadow saw a most singular sight.

On the throne, occupying the basalt stone, sat the living figure of Xitli, the fire G.o.d. In the foreground were the Aztecs, as numerous as the night before, despite the fact that The Shadow had considerably thinned their ranks, in battle. The answer was that more members of the Xitli cult must have arrived from Mexico.

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