The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 4

While they waited, Trame reached into the desk and brought out a sheaf of typewritten papers.

"You will excuse us, I hope, for the next few hours," he said. "I am dictating my memoirs to Raydorf. I believe that the public will be interested in the life of Jerome Trebble, since so few persons have ever met me. Don't you agree, Cranston?"

Before The Shadow could reply, Hartley arrived. He was a man past middle age, frail and gray-haired, who supported himself in the doorway by placing both hands against the sides. The yacht was pitching slightly in the heavy sea, which could account for Hartley's effort to steady himself; but the steward also showed signs of feebleness.

His eyes were dull; they had difficulty noting faces in the gloom of the cabin, where the shades over the portholes were more than half drawn. But there was a momentary change of Hartley's expression when he heard Trame say: "Hartley, this is Mr. Cranston. You will attend to anything he wants."

"Very well, sir." Hartley's brief flicker of emotion faded. "You may depend upon me."

The Shadow followed Hartley from the cabin. Not once did the steward turn about as they pa.s.sed seamen lounging on the deck. There was a good reason why Hartley did not look back; the steward was anxious not to betray himself.

He had recognized a face in that gloomy cabin; had heard a voice that he remembered. Hartley was one man who had been many years aboard the Marmora, in the service of Jerome Trebble. He could probably recall any person who had ever visited the eccentric millionaire yachtsman, for guests, during those years, had been very few.

Hartley had not forgotten Lamont Cranston.

The steward's change of expression had come when he realized that at last a friend had come on board; one who might see through the pretenses of PointerTrame. He had suppressed that look, hoping that Trame would not notice it.

Right now, Hartley was carefully trying to hide any interest in Cranston's presence.

Reaching a companionway, Hartley descended, letting Cranston stroll alone to the rear deck. There, seating himself in a deep steamer chair, The Shadow finished a last few puffs at the fine Havana cigar that Trame had given him.

The Shadow's eyes roved out across the tossing waves that teemed with bluish brilliance. He was content to play the calm part of Cranston, here aboard the Marmora, while daylight persisted.

But when night came anew, his ways would match the darkness that blanketed the Atlantic. Then, once more The Shadow, he would pry deep into the affairs of Pointer Trame and the crooks who served that bold impostor.

CHAPTER VIII.

MEN IN THE DARK.

IT was midnight. In his cabin aboard the Marmora, The Shadow lay upon his berth thinking over events of the afternoon and evening. Though far at sea, he had not lost contact with the world on sh.o.r.e.

Before dinner, he had taken a most fortunate stroll along the yacht's upper deck. It had brought him within hearing range of the Marmora's wireless room. The operator, one of Trame's tools, had picked up an important news flash that The Shadow had overheard.

It told about salvage operations off Atlantic City. The wreck of the Ozark had been located. Within a few days, divers would be ready to seek the strong box in the sunken freighter's hold: That news had certainly angered Pointer Trame.

The big-shot had shown signs of it at dinner, although he had tried to cover his ire. Whatever Trame's game, he had intended that the strong box be lost forever, like those other cargoes shipped by Hugh Barvale.

If those salvage operations went too far, Trame would have to take a hand.

That didn't quite fit with other schemes that he evidently had in mind.

Later, after dark, The Shadow had made a brief foray to the wireless room, where he had again heard incoming messages. They came in a special code, but The Shadow had deciphered them upon returning to his cabin.

The messages were from Trame's workers in New York. They were fitting out a ship, and would be ready when needed. Included was the fact that crooks had taken on new hands to replace those lost aboard the Ozark.

The Shadow knew that his own agents would be among that crew. Cliff Marsland had played the game well, while on the Ozark. Though he hadn't been a member of Trame's mob, he had hobn.o.bbed with them; and they had been on the point of enlisting him, when the trouble broke out.

In all that chaos, Cliff hadn't been identified with The Shadow. To all appearances, the black-cloaked fighter had played a lone game, merely rallying loyal men about him. If Cliff, back in New York, looked up his crooked shipmates, they would give him a full-fledged welcome. The fact that he had left the Ozark with the others wouldn't matter. It had been his only way to escape from the sinking ship.

Those reflections ended as The Shadow heard footsteps pad past his cabin door, which opened onto the outside deck.

They had come regularly, those sneaky shuffles, every thirty minutes. Theoutside prowler who was keeping watch on Cranston's cabin thought that he could not be heard. Instead, he was simply giving himself away. He was practically stating that during the next thirty minutes. Cranston's cabin, would be unwatched.

Twisting from the berth, The Shadow, opened his bag. Prying into the s.p.a.ce beneath the false bottom, he brought out his black cloak and hat. He already had his automatics, holstered beneath his coat. Donning the black garments, he drew on a pair of thin gloves that had been tucked within the hat. Silently, The Shadow moved from the cabin.

He became a gliding thing of blackness, a sable-hued ghost invisible in the night, as he groped his way along the rail. The Marmora was rolling through a long cross swell, and The Shadow gauged his progress to the ship's motion.

Picking a well-chosen course, he disappeared below and suddenly emerged from a darkened pa.s.sage into the lighted s.p.a.ce outside Trame's cabin.

The door of that cabin was unlocked, as The Shadow learned when he tried the k.n.o.b. The discovery caused extreme caution on The Shadow's part. Under his skillful-pressure, the door gave no perceptible motion as it inched inward.

Using the narrowest of cracks, The Shadow surveyed the scene.

AS usual, the cabin was but dimly lighted. Trame kept it that way for two reasons. First, because it had been customary with Trebble; again, it helped Trame get by with his impersonation of the vanished millionaire.

But Trame wasn't in the cabin at present.

Instead, The Shadow saw Raydorf. The alleged secretary was seated at the desk; he had turned on a small light, that cast a sharp glow upon white sheets of paper in front of him. So powerful was the light that The Shadow could see the numerals on a little desk calendar at Raydorf's elbow. That calendar was correct, and Raydorf was referring to its date: Tuesday, the twelfth.

In a curious way, Raydorf was Trame's secretary. Usually, though, a secretary typed letters and let his employer sign them. Raydorf was doing just the reverse. He was carefully affixing a signature to certain doc.u.ments. As the darkish man tilted one sheet into the light, The Shadow saw its bold-lettered signature. The name that Raydorf had written was that of Jerome Trebble.

With Raydorf in his employ, Pointer Trame could go far with his impersonation of Trebble. It was plain that Raydorf was a skilled forger, who could supply the one thing that Trame most required: a satisfactory replica of Trebble's signature. That, however, did not clear the situation; contrarily, it actually perplexed The Shadow.

At this rate, Trame could bleed the vast riches that belonged to Jerome Trebble. Why, then, should Pointer Trame be working at other crime?

The Shadow wanted the answer to that question, and he was soon to get it.

Raydorf had finished with his forgery. He laid the papers on the desk and stepped toward the door. The barrier was tightening imperceptibly as he approached.

Outside, The Shadow did a rapid fade into a darkened side pa.s.sage.

Swallowed by gloom, he was gone like a dispelling puff of black smoke, when Raydorf stepped from the cabin. The evil-faced secretary was going up on deck to talk with Trame, hence did not bother to lock the cabin door.

Raydorf's footsteps were still echoing from a companionway when The Shadow glided into Trame's cabin.

The doc.u.ments that Raydorf had signed with Trebble's name werecomparatively unimportant. They were papers sent to the Marmora by Trebble's lawyers. They had to be returned with Trebble's signature; but there was no rush about them.

In the top drawer of the desk, however, The Shadow found a batch of correspondence that explained the matter that had puzzled him. Most of those letters were a year old, written before Pointer Trame ever had met Jerome Trebble.

From those letters, The Shadow learned that Trebble had disposed of nearly all his vast estate. He had cracked it into gifts and endowments to friends and inst.i.tutions, with the understanding that the donations should remain anonymous until after his death. He had put the small remainder of his wealth into an ironclad trust fund, simply to support himself and cover the upkeep of the yacht Marmora.

In meeting Jerome Trebble, Pointer Trame had not found a master of many millions. He had simply come across a man who had foresworn the world, and was living on a comparative pittance!

By taking Trebble's place, Trame had acquired possession of the yacht Marmora, and nothing more. Whatever money came from the managers of the trust fund was immediately swallowed up by current expenses. No wonder Trame had found it necessary to play some other game! He would be glad when he could chuck the part of Jerome Trebble entirely.

DIGGING into another drawer, The Shadow found more papers. These were a discovery of a different sort, but quite as valuable as the first. They were letters and other doc.u.ments, carefully arranged in order of date, all signed with the name of Hugh Barvale!

Some of the papers bore the letterhead of Barvale & Co. and every doc.u.ment told a story. First, there were letters and receipts pertaining to the shipments of delicate machinery, with references to when and how those shipments should be taken from storage.

Next were letters that covered the transfer of the platinum shipment, brought in from Colombia and held for a few days before it was sent to Europe.

There were letters, too, arranging for an armored truck to carry Barvale's strong box to the pier where the freighter Ozark had been moored.

Finally, The Shadow read a most important letter, addressed to a concern called the Waterways Transfer Co. The body of the letter read: In accordance with my previous instructions, you will dispatch the auxiliary lugger Welcome to acquire whatever cargo may be reclaimed by the salvage ship Hercules, at present operating on the wreck of the freighter Ozark. From said cargo, one item, namely a chained strong box, is mostly important, and must be held in your possession pending my further instructions.

Sincerely yours, HUGH BARVALE.

Every letter in that batch dyed Hugh Barvale with the brush that he had so completely avoided. Until the present, The Shadow had not found one sc.r.a.p of evidence that could prove Barvale as the silent partner in the murderous activities that had produced several sea disasters, culminating in the loss of the freighter Ozark.

Visualizing Barvale as a hidden crime master, there was good reason whyPointer Trame, the actual field general, should retain these important doc.u.ments.

a.s.suming that Barvale and Trame had agreed upon an equal division of insurance money and other spoils, Trame's only sure way to collect his share would be through possession of these letters. Properly brought to light, they would incriminate Barvale without involving Trame.

It looked like the old story of crook mistrusting crook; but behind it, The Shadow could see another factor. The laugh that eased from his lips was barely audible. No one could have heard it outside the walls of that cabin.

But The Shadow's wary ears could detect distant sounds and identify them.

He was hearing such tokens as he replaced the Barvale correspondence in its proper drawer. The sounds were those of footsteps outside the cabin. They signified that two men were heading in this direction; probably Trame and Raydorf.

The Shadow's hunch was right.

He was scarcely outside the cabin, when he saw figures descending the wide companionway. Their faces were not quite in sight at the moment of The Shadow's silent twist into the opposite pa.s.sage. The Shadow saw them from darkness, Trame and Raydorf. As soon as they had gone into the cabin, he made for the companionway.

Along the darkened-rolling decks, he skirted past the wireless room, to check on any incoming calls. None came during the five minutes that The Shadow watched. It was time to be getting back to his own cabin, in case the patroller, making his half-hour round, should decide to peer inside.

FOOTSTEPS were already sneaking toward him when The Shadow edged through his own doorway. In the darkness of the little cabin, he remained stock-still, knowing that the patroller would certainly knock before trying to unlock the door. In that case, The Shadow could use Cranston's voice to inquire who was there. That would satisfy the patrolling deckhand.

As it happened, the man didn't stop. His paces continued onward in their methodical fashion. The Shadow reached for the doork.n.o.b, intending to step out again and use the next half hour to look in on Trame and Raydorf.

Then, like the silent darkness itself, The Shadow became motionless. The fade of those pa.s.sing footsteps had allowed him to hear a closer sound - a tense, slow breathing that seemed no more than inches from his elbow.

The Shadow was no longer atone in his cabin. Someone had entered during his absence. Whoever the man might be, he had learned, when he entered, that Lamont Cranston was gone. That fact, once spread, could place The Shadow in the worst predicament of his career.

Alone on the Marmora, faced by Trame's picked crew of crooks, The Shadow would be up against terrific odds. He would be safe, only if he could resume the part of Cranston without anyone learning that he had temporarily been The Shadow.

There was still a way whereby that could be accomplished.

The way was to prevent the departure of the lurker who had not managed to clear from the cabin before The Shadow's return. That done, The Shadow could take time to decide upon his next plans.

Turning from the doorway, The Shadow moved silently inward, to proceed with his momentous task.

CHAPTER IX.

EXIT THE SHADOW SEEKING that tense lurker was a matter that required utmost care. The same darkness that aided The Shadow also rendered his opponent invisible. Moreover, The Shadow was running a risk that increased with every moment.

Once the other man suspected what was up, he could take measures of his own. A wild shout would certainly bring members of the crew to Cranston's cabin. That would start the very battle that The Shadow wanted to avoid.

Therefore, The Shadow applied special strategy. As he moved about the cabin, first toward the porthole, then in the direction of the berth, he allowed slight sounds to reveal his approximate location. By those, The Shadow made it seem that he hadn't learned of the other man's presence.

Moreover, he was craftily coaxing his unknown quarry into a crucial move.

The Shadow was opening a path toward the door, so that the fellow would try to reach it, The maneuver was neat, but it couldn't be overdone; otherwise, the man would have a chance to actually slide out. The thing to do was hold him, by some different strategy, when he reached the door.

In any room, that crafty game of guesswork would have been remarkable. In this cabin, it was doubly momentous. In that darkness, the partic.i.p.ants were like caged creatures confined in a square-walled box that some giant hand was tossing back and forth, to suit its changing whims.

For the Marmora, wending an idle northwest course, was neither heading into the sea nor following the troughs of waves. The yacht was varying rolls with pitches, and to keep their footing, both The Shadow and his crouching visitor had to stay close to any fixed objects that they could grab.

The Shadow had reached the berth at last. He was confident that the other man was near the door. Something was needed to hold him there, and The Shadow found the method. His bag was near the foot of the berth, which was toward the door. Extending one foot, The Shadow supplied a short kick.

The bag tipped over; the lunch box clattered tinnily, as it fell out to the floor. The sound was fairly close to the door; The Shadow sensed that the other man was crouching still, not ready to move until he heard some further noise.

Timing his action to the yacht's roll, The Shadow circled away from the berth and came in toward the door from the opposite direction!

A pitch floundered The Shadow toward the wall beside the door. His elbow thumped hard, but he disregarded its sudden numbness. Knowing that the man had heard his clatter, and would instinctively spin about, The Shadow launched forward. He came to an immediate grapple with a wiry foe.

One fist upon the fellow's throat, The Shadow prevented an outcry. His numbed hand was clutching at the gun which the fellow shoved against him.

Managing to push the weapon aside, The Shadow put one finger underneath the trigger to prevent its pull.

Squirms lessened. The Shadow's throttling tactics were paying dividends.

Rolling away from the door, he carried his foe with him. They reeled against the berth. Plucking the revolver from the limp hand that held it, The Shadow flung the man on the mattress.

A tiny flashlight twinkled. It showed a grayish, haggard face looking upward with frightened eyes, while dryish lips gulped voicelessly for air.

The man on the berth was Hartley, the old steward.

PROMPTLY, The Shadow flung aside his cloak and hat. He turned on a light above the berth. Hartley's expression changed at sight of Cranston. The steward's fear was ended.

"I... I didn't think it was you, sir!" he whispered. "I came in... to talk to you -"

Hartley's pause showed traces of uncertainty. It was Cranston's quiet nod that gave him courage to go on. "But you were gone," added the steward. "I was afraid that they had captured you. So when you came back, I didn't recognize you. I'm sorry, Mr.

Cranston!"

Seated by the berth, The Shadow picked up the tin box that had fallen from the bag. That box also had a double bottom, that contained a make-up kit. He replaced it carefully in the bag, the interval allowing Hartley to regain his breath.