Part 4 (2/2)

The wounded man was shooting. His aim was wide. His shots missed the swiftly-moving target; it was not until The Shadow swung upright that he gained a perfect chance to fire. As the man's nervous fingerfumbled with the trigger, The Shadow loosed a slug from the automatic. The shot found the man's right wrist. Already wounded in the left shoulder, the fellow dropped his gun and fell groaning to the deck.

Again, The Shadow's laugh; with it a sudden shot from the pa.s.sage. Warren Sigler, recovered, had dashed to the scene of the fray. Arriving at the deck, the frenzied secretary had staked all on a quick shot at the black-garbed figure that had whirled to a spot beside the rail, more than twenty feet away.

Sigler could handle a.r.s.enic better than an automatic. The bullet from his .38 whizzed through the sweeping fold of The Shadow's cloak and found its only lodging in the rail. Sigler steadied for a second shot that never came from his gun. It was The Shadow's .45 that boomed instead.

Aiming for a murderer who sought his life, The Shadow did not fail. His single shot was the final reward that Warren Sigler gained for treachery to a kindly master. The false secretary fell dead upon the deck.

Cries from above. Scurrying feet on the deck above The Shadow's head. The black-garbed victor made his quick return toward the inner pa.s.sage. Leaping over Sigler's dead body he gained the inner pa.s.sage before s.h.i.+p's officers arrived. Choosing an open course, he faded from view.

CONFUSION reigned aboard the Southern Star. Warren Sigler was found dead; also a pa.s.senger from Pernambuco. Two other South Americans, one wounded, the other stunned, were discovered on the deck.

Quizzing convinced the captain that these men were of criminal status. One hour later, all the pa.s.sengers aboard the s.h.i.+p were a.s.sembled in the dining salon for a rigid check-up. Two were found to be missing.

One was a Brazilian named Carlos Mendoza, concerning whom no information was available. The other was Edwin Berlett, a prominent New York attorney, in whose stateroom the battle had begun, and whose secretary, Warren Sigler, had been killed.

There was but one conclusion. Despite the denials of the stunned South American who had come to his senses, it was decided that the armed thugs had thrown Berlett overboard. The ocean, too, was picked as the final resting place of Carlos Mendoza.

Because Mendoza was unknown, it was decided that he must have been a member of the crooked crew.

A fight was pictured on the deck. Berlett, going over the rail, dragging Mendoza with him, while Warren Sigler-not suspected of treachery-battled to save his helpless master, Edwin Berlett.

The captured South Americans admitted that they had been hired to come aboard the s.h.i.+p; but they claimed that their orders had been gained from Rio. They had been told to aid a man who whistled; that was all. Their nationality was a point that incriminated the missing Carlos Mendoza as their leader.

LATER, a tall figure was standing alone near the stern of the Southern Star. The deck light revealed the steady, masklike features of Lamont Cranston. But the whispered laugh that floated across the propeller-churned tropical sea was the echoed mirth of The Shadow.

Alone, of those aboard the Southern Star, The Shadow knew the true story of Carlos Mendoza. The Shadow had booked two pa.s.sages on this s.h.i.+p. He had come aboard twice; once as Lamont Cranston, again as Carlos Mendoza. No one had suspected that a single pa.s.senger had played the part of two men between Rio and Pernambuco.

It was with faked talk of evidence that The Shadow had brought about a climax. His threatened exposure of Warren Sigler, based upon observations at the Hotel Nacional, had been sufficient to prepare a death warrant for the so-called Carlos Mendoza. Also, The Shadow alone could have revealed the fact that Edwin Berlett had not perished. The Shadow knew that Berlett had followed through a clever scheme. He knew that the pilot s.h.i.+p, returning to Pernambuco, was the only way by which Berlett could have escaped from the Southern Star.

Why had Berlett fled? Why had he not remained to keep his appointment with Carlos Mendoza? The Shadow knew the answer. It was the note from Mendoza-not the interview with the pretended investigator-that had made Berlett decide upon his course.

The Shadow had not witnessed Berlett's reading of the note; but he knew that the clever lawyer, shrewd in the past, crafty in the thought of the future, had decided that refuge in Pernambuco would be better for his plans than a further voyage aboard the Southern Star.

Edwin Berlett had departed. More than that, he had gained a reputation that might help him. Presumably, Berlett was dead. Where crime lay in the offing, a living dead man might hold a real advantage.

The Shadow had triumphed to-night, in pitched battle with vicious foemen. He had delivered necessary death to Warren Sigler, a murderer who deserved a violent end. But the swift battle aboard the Southern Star and the check-up of the pa.s.sengers afterward, had proven of aid to the schemes of some one other than The Shadow.

Edwin Berlett, safe in Pernambuco, had played his cards well. He had read between the lines of Carlos Mendoza's notes. He had played a crafty part during his interview with the pretended South American.

The Shadow, fighting for his own welfare and working in behalf of justice, had automatically performed another function when Warren Sigler had precipitated the struggle. The Shadow had abetted the cause of Edwin Berlett!

CHAPTER VII. NEW DEATH ARRIVES.

DEATH aboard the Steams.h.i.+p Southern Star. This news, flashed by radio, created an immense sensation. Within a few hours after the fight on the liner, New York newspapers were running scare-heads based upon the meager reports from the northward bound vessel.

First announcements were followed by new details. The reported death of Edwin Berlett was blared forth by the journals. Radiograms dispatched to the Southern Star brought back terse replies. The s.h.i.+p was heading into Barbados. More details would be dispatched when it arrived in port.

Like an avalanche increasing in size and fury, the story of the fight on the Southern Star was magnified.

To cap it came a new sensation. This was the burial, at sea, of a corpse that had been aboard the s.h.i.+p since Rio-the body of Torrence Dilgin.

The New York newspapers had not made much of Dilgin's death. The pa.s.sing of an old, retired oil magnate, living south for his health, had not been considered important enough for heavy s.p.a.ce in newspaper columns. But the reported death of Edwin Berlett had brought out the fact that the lawyer was bringing Dilgin's body back to New York. The captain of the Southern Star, like journalists in America, had taken an interest in the body that was stored aboard his s.h.i.+p.

Investigating, the captain had made the discovery that Torrence Dilgin's body had not been embalmed.

He had taken an ice-packed corpse aboard the s.h.i.+p. This was entirely contrary to orders. The captain had exerted his authority as dictator of law aboard a s.h.i.+p at sea.

Funeral rites had been read above the coffin of Torrence Dilgin. The casket, with the remains of the millionaire, had been consigned to the ocean. The captain, firm in the belief that the disposal of thiscorpse was essential to the welfare of the pa.s.sengers, had unwittingly disposed of the last evidence that could have pointed to Torrence Dilgin's murder.

But the burial itself was newspaper copy. The mystery of Dilgin's body; its hasty s.h.i.+pment from Rio; the fact that Edwin Berlett had been bringing it north without embalming-all were built into newspaper stories.

New York journals had their readers expectant. Each day was bringing new reports. Lester Dorrington, lawyer in charge of Torrence Dilgin's estate, was deluged by a flow of reporters. Testily, Dorrington refused interviews. He had no statement.

LATE one afternoon, a few days after the first reports had been received from the Southern Star, an old man was seated in a small, dilapidated office, scanning the early edition of an evening newspaper. The letterhead on a sheet of stationery that lay upon the man's desk announced his name and his profession: HUGO VERBECK.

ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

Verbeck's eyes were staring through the heavy lenses of rimmed spectacles. The old chap's hands were trembling with nervousness as they clutched the newspaper. Verbeck was devouring the gruesome details that concerned affairs aboard the Southern Star.

Some clever journalist had speculated upon Torrence Dilgin's death. Basing his column on the burial at sea, the writer had suggested that the millionaire's demise in Rio might be worthy of investigating. Reading this discussion, Verbeck rested his forefinger upon the name of Torrence Dilgin. He stared through his gla.s.ses at a photograph of the millionaire.

With a shake of his head, Verbeck laid the newspaper aside. He went to a safe in the corner of his old office. He opened the door, found a metal box and raised the lid. From the box he took the key to a safe deposit vault; also a folded paper of identification.

Verbeck left his office. He descended to the street and hailed a taxicab. He directed the driver to take him to the Paragon Trust Company. Arrived at the bank, Verbeck entered, showed his paper and was conducted to the safe deposit vaults.

The old lawyer used the key to unlock a box. He peered into s.p.a.ce and saw a metal container that half filled the safe deposit box. Drawing the container forth, the old lawyer undid its clasps. He raised the lid.

He stared in bewilderment.

The metal coffer was empty! Where Hugo Verbeck had definitely expected to find something of importance, he had discovered nothing.

A full minute pa.s.sed while Verbeck blinked in owlish fas.h.i.+on. Then, with slow, methodical movement, the old attorney replaced the coffer and closed the door of the safe deposit box.

Verbeck was muttering as he left the bank. His lips were still moving as he called a cab and rode back to his building. When he reached his office, the old lawyer's face was a study in worry and perplexity.

Pacing back and forth across his little room, Hugo Verbeck was in a quandary. He mumbled incoherent words. He mopped his brow. He stopped at the desk and picked up the newspaper. Dusk had settled; it was too dark to read in the gloomy office, so Verbeck turned on the light, by pressing a switch at the door. BLINKING in the light, Verbeck went back to the desk. He picked up the newspaper with apparent determination. He placed his forefinger upon another name mentioned on the front page. That was the name of Lester Dorrington.

Doubt registered itself on Verbeck's pinched features. Plainly, the old lawyer was perturbed about something that concerned Torrence Dilgin. From the reticence of his actions, it was apparent that he would have kept the matter to himself under ordinary circ.u.mstances.

Speculation on Dilgin's death and its aftermath had produced a different effect. Hugo Verbeck was beating down his own resistance. Whatever his secret- and plainly he had one-it was troubling him to the extreme.

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