The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 11

Harry knew that it could, but there was nothing for him to do but wait.

There wasn't any sound from Edna, however, and that was a very bad sign.

Enlarged in Harry's estimation, the girl's wits had become a standard of evil cunning. She was one of a very small number of people that Harry had met who might have the genius to stay clear of The Shadow. Harry could picture her listening in the darkness with ears keen enough to hear The Shadow's approach.

It might be that if rescue came, Edna could forestall it. There were plenty of hiding places among those unloaded boxes, where the girl could weave in and out.

The swish seemed closer. Harry was sure that it was more than imagination.

Then as a living glow to match Harry's hope, a tiny flashlight pointed down into the pit! The range was long and the light that reached Harry was feeble, but he was sure that should it be The Shadow, the cloaked rescuer would see him. Suddenly, the light blinked off.

HAD it been The Shadow? Could he have seen Harry, during that brief survey? Those questions remained unanswerable for the moment. Certain it was that whoever had looked into the pit, had heard something that diverted his attention.

It might be that The Shadow had spotted Edna. If so, all the better, for that was the one thing that had bothered Harry. It would be preferable if The Shadow first trapped Edna and then came to Harry's rescue.

There were sounds from above, like figures creeping among the boxes. Then a sharper sound, as if one box had tumbled. There was a hollow echo; during it, Harry thought that he heard a girl's startled scream. Silence after that.

Why did nothing more happen?

Again it seemed that Harry's imagination was at work. He thought he heard sounds so vague that they seemed hardly real; like whispers in the darkness.

If they were sounds, Harry didn't realize when they ended. He knew only, at last, that everything was totally silent above.

He was sure, as he reviewed it, that The Shadow had actually been here.

But he was equally positive, though he hated to admit it, that The Shadow had gone. The only explanation that fitted so unusual a result, was that Edna had actually outwitted The Shadow in the darkness.

It was possible that the sounds that Harry heard had carried down into the pit, yet remained inaudible above. Perhaps it was The Shadow who had accidentally tipped that box.

The Shadow had other work to do. That was why he had delegated his agents to their various tasks. Having spent too many precious minutes investigating the old garage, The Shadow could have gone his way. He might believe that Harry's absence from the house next door meant simply that the agent had gone somewhere in order to telephone Burbank.

Bound on some new mission, The Shadow might not learn for hours that Harry had actually disappeared. By that time, all of Edna's threats could be accomplished. It wasn't a pleasant outlook for Harry. His hope was almost gone.

It was awakened, momentarily, by sounds above. Footsteps, then a light, larger than the one before. Harry turned a last look upward. His hope went as rapidly as it had come. He could see a face outlined in the glow; a face that should have been topped by blond hair, but which was covered by a jet-black wig instead.

It was the face of Edna Barvale, still in the make-up of Ruth Eldrey. The girl wore the wise smile that Harry had noted before, an expression as deceptive as her disguise. The smile made Harry feel that it very definitely concerned his fate.

Edna shifted a gun to the hand that held the flashlight. With her other fist she tugged at the grating and pulled it loose. Gun and flashlight both were pointed down toward Harry. From them, the prisoner feared immediate doom.

Harry Vincent closed his eyes. His plight had reached a climax that even The Shadow could no longer change!

CHAPTER XVIII.

CRIME'S EVIDENCE.

IT was three o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. In the bigbelow-decks cabin aboard the yacht Marmora, a mustached man sat talking to the commander of a coast-guard cutter. The man with the mustache wasn't highly pleased, but he tried to suppress his feelings.

He was Vic Marquette of the F.B.I., and he had been called in to handle a case that should have introduced results long hours ago. Instead, everyone had awaited his arrival, although they held evidence in hand.

"These papers" - Marquette gestured toward the drawer on the left - "belong to Jerome Trebble. They have his signature, and it looks genuine."

"There's a chap on board," reminded the cutter's captain, "who isn't so sure that it was Trebble who got away last night."

"You mean that steward Hartley," returned Marquette. "I've talked to him, but we can't take his testimony. The fellow's half blind! As for the others, they won't admit that the man wasn't Trebble."

Turning to the drawer on the right, Marquette methodically lifted out a stack of papers and spread them on the desk.

"These were here before that fight began," he declared. "That point is certain. There's no way in which they could have been brought aboard afterward.

You agree with me?"

"Absolutely! The shooting was all over when we arrived, but no one could have boarded this yacht. I checked on the matter with the men who helped stop that raid on the salvage ship."

Inasmuch as the men mentioned had shown themselves on the law's side, there was no doubting their testimony. Working from that basis, Vic Marquette interpreted the importance of the papers that lay on the desk.

"These show us," he said, "that Hugh Barvale was behind all those wrecks at sea. He's collected his insurance money, which makes it bad enough. But from all this evidence, the thing may go a lot deeper. However, there's something else we must consider. That is how these papers got here.

"It's obvious that they were in the possession of Jerome Trebble. He had money, nothing much to do, and he spent his time at sea. There's every reason why Trebble should have put some investigator on the job, just to find out what lay behind all those wrecks.

"Suppose that Barvale found out about Trebble. His only course would have been to put men aboard this yacht and start some trouble. That's exactly what happened. And what would Trebble have done? He'd have cleared out. Which is what he did."

Vic Marquette ended his summary decisively. It carried weight, and convinced the man who listened. Like Vic, the commander of the cutter agreed that Hartley's testimony, honest though it might be, had been disproven by the facts.

VIC MARQUETTE spent the next half hour in transmitting wireless messages ash.o.r.e. He was hoping that they wouldn't be too late, that there would still be time to prevent Barvale's flight from New York.

The odds, Marquette believed, were very much in the law's favor. From all appearances, Barvale would try to bluff matters through.

In fact, Barvale would very probably believe that all the doc.u.ments aboard the Marmora had been destroyed. The longer that he remained unmolested and unquestioned, the more confident would he become. That probability pleased Marquette. It explained the care with which he sent his messages.

Hugh Barvale was to be closely watched by Federal men, but under no circ.u.mstances was he to gain the slightest inkling that he was under observation. All that, Vic decided, would lead to a complete surprise for Barvale, particularly if something else turned out the way that Marquettewanted it.

Collecting all the papers from the desk, the Fed packed them in a folder.

Going on deck, Marquette boarded a small boat that took him to the salvage ship Hercules, which was less than a quarter mile away.

The salvage crew had sent divers down to the Ozark, but there had been difficulties reaching the sunken freighter's hold. The explosion had wrecked the ship badly, blocking the hatchways. That was something that Pointer Trame had not foreseen and which would have made trouble for his own outfit, had they taken charge of operations.

Vic Marquette, however, was not thinking about Pointer Trame. He hadn't even connected the big-shot's name with this chain of crime. The one person who occupied Vic's mind was Hugh Barvale. He was the owner of the strong box that soon would be reclaimed.

There were signals from the divers; then more delay, until finally the word was given that all was clear. Big winches worked. Huge cranes labored with the ma.s.sive weight, tightening as the burden reached the water's surface.

Slowly, a bulky object was slung over the side. Settling with a resounding thump upon the deck, the reclaimed strong box stood in view. Brought from the deep, that object had an electric effect upon the men who saw it.

They remembered the strife that the strong box had caused; the lives that had been lost in efforts both to lose and to reclaim it. There were plenty of guards on duty - men brought from the coast-guard cutter - and all were ready with their guns, as if expecting crooks to spring from anywhere and make another foray.

Suspicious eyes looked upward, to an autogiro that was circling overhead.

To all appearances, that plane was merely bringing curious observers from Atlantic City, but there was a remote chance that it might contain enemies, ready to drop a bomb upon the salvagers.

What no one guessed, was that the lone pilot of that giro was the personage whose work had actually led to the reclaiming of the strong box.

The Shadow was on hand, should his efforts again be needed at this crucial time.

EAGER hands grabbed for the chain that girded the strong box. They were anxious to smash the padlocks, to blast the box open and actually bring to light the two million dollars in gold and silver. No one expected interference, for with government men aboard, it seemed the proper time for such work.

Intervention came, however, from the very man who should have been most desirous of viewing the wealth.

Vic Marquette gave an order so sharply that it literally brushed all hands away. Turning about, Vic picked out a man close by. The fellow was Robert Pell, once the third officer of the ill-fated Ozark. Pell had been a.s.signed to duty with the salvage crew.

"Can you identify that strong box?" questioned Vic. "Would you swear that it was the same one that was shipped aboard the Ozark?"

Pell studied the faded letters that spelled the name of Barvale & Co. He examined the chain with meticulous care, clanked the big padlocks. After a look at the combination dial, he turned to Marquette and said: "It is the same strong box." There were others who supported Pell's identification of the box, but most of them were more puzzled than the former third officer of the Ozark.

Something had occurred to Pell; it was linked with the recollection of the time when the strong box had been brought aboard - something he had forgotten because of other worries.

The next question voiced by Marquette was one that Pell expected.

"How much would you say that box weighed?" asked Vic. "It seems to me those cranes swung it on the deck very easily. Too bad we haven't got a scales on board, but we'll attend to the weighing later. I'll make a bet, though, that the thing weighs less than four tons."

"Less than three!"

Marquette was startled by Pell's statement, because of the a.s.surance it carried. Vic's eyes sped sudden suspicion, a moment later. Then Pell began to explain his reason for the statement. He told Vic of the weakened chain back at the pier in Manhattan; how he would have changed it if the men from the armored truck had not objected.

Vic realized that Pell's story could be corroborated by many witnesses, and reasoned, therefore, that the man was telling the exact truth. Pell's valiant efforts aboard the Ozark, at the time of battle, also stood him in good stead. Vic Marquette was pleased, knowing that he had found the very man he needed to clinch the case.

The Fed ordered the strong box to be put aboard the coast-guard cutter exactly as it stood. The cutter drew alongside the salvage ship and the transfer was completed. Vic went aboard the cutter and took Pell with him.

All the while, the wingless autogiro was hovering above the scene.

Meeting a light head wind, it was throttled down to a point where it was practically stationary in the air. It had settled to less than a hundred feet above the Hercules, and the sharp eyes of the pilot had been busy watching all that happened around the strong box.

As the cutter headed northward, the autogiro followed. Soon, it pa.s.sed the ship and was lost far ahead in the dim distance. It would be dark when the cutter reached New York; long after the autogiro had arrived there.

Zooming above the ocean, The Shadow set the giro's controls and considered matters which interested Vic Marquette. He could a.n.a.lyze all Vic's purposes; he knew exactly what they would produce. Vic was gunning for Hugh Barvale, trying to arouse the man's confidence, only to dismay him.

That game was aiding The Shadow; but his plans went further. All that Marquette was sure would apply to Barvale would also influence Pointer Trame.

Crime's evidence was coming home. It was to prove a greater boomerang than either Barvale or Pointer could realize.

The Shadow's laugh toned to the hum of the giro's steady motor. The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER XIX.

STOLEN PROFITS.

EVENING had settled in New York, when a large car pulled up in front ofthe town house where Hugh Barvale lived. The driver of that automobile was uniformed like a chauffeur, but his natty attire didn't offset his face. He had all the marks of a thug.

However, the driver wasn't close enough to any light for his face to be noticed by certain watchers who were on the ground. Alighting, the fake chauffeur stood close to the car as he opened the rear door.

The man who stepped out was very presentably attired. He had an important air, as he gestured with his cane to dismiss the car. He adjusted his beribboned spectacles as he turned to look at Barvale's mansion.

When the car pulled away, watchers opposite could see the man quite plainly. He answered the description that they had of Jerome Trebble. In fact, he was playing the part of Trebble very well, for he had practiced it a long while.

The man from the big car was Pointer Trame.

Trame rang the bell at Barvale's door, was admitted to the mansion.

Immediately, men across the way went into motion. They were Feds, posted here to see who called on Barvale. One of them entered a nearby house and put in a phone call to a certain East River pier. He learned that a coast-guard cutter had just arrived there. It didn't take the operative very long to report to Vic Marquette.

Within fifteen minutes, a taxi came screeching up to Barvale's door.

Marquette sprang from it, motioned across the street and raised two fingers. A pair of Feds came up behind him, when he rang for entry at Barvale's.

The servant who admitted Vic began to say that Mr. Barvale couldn't be disturbed. Marquette brushed the fellow aside and headed for a door at the rear of the first-floor hall. From the light beneath that door, Vic had a hunch that it was the entrance to Barvale's study.

It was very black, near that door, and for a moment Vic hesitated, shoving his hand to his gun pocket. A swell place for a lurker, thought Vic; and the possibility stirred memories to mind.

Vic Marquette remembered a certain personage who had often cooperated with the law. That being was The Shadow. His hand had certainly been evident in recent thrusts against men of crime.

Could it be that The Shadow was here ahead of Vic Marquette?

That darkness near the door was made to order for the strange fighter who garbed himself in black. Marquette spoke in a low, tense voice, as though addressing some friend in the gloom. There was no response.

Somehow, the blackness didn't look as thick as it had. In a sense, it had receded along the hallway. Marquette drew closer, still staring, but he saw nothing more. Then his attention was captured by voices that came from within Barvale's study.

"I TELL you, all this means nothing!" The booming tone belonged to Hugh Barvale. "You are saying that the law can hold me responsible for crime. Bah!

All that has been thrashed over, long ago!"

"You have collected a few millions in insurance money," returned a wheedling voice, that Marquette identified with Jerome Trebble. "That is sufficient to incriminate you."

"If so," rumbled Barvale, "why have you come here to tell me?"

"Because, Mr. Barvale," began Trame, persistent with his tone of Trebble, "there is something that I have to settle -"

His voice broke off. Marquette didn't guess the reason, although Vic had supplied it himself. Pressing closer to the door, Marquette had joggled it.Hearing the sound, Pointer Trame suspected the presence of a listener.