The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 6

His observations at the Eclipse Garage gained high importance from the fact that the place was right in back of the house where Hugh Barvale lived.

In fact, it would be news to Burbank, and probably to The Shadow, to learn that Barvale had a home in Manhattan.

The exporter's usual residence was on Long Island. When in the city, he invariably stayed at a hotel or his club. Just why Barvale had moved to a town house, became a question that Harry believed could be aptly answered. Harry, himself, had found a suitable reason: the proximity of Barvale's residence to the closed Eclipse Garage.

HARRY rode to his hotel; there, he phoned in his report to Burbank. His watch showed five o'clock; time to start on his final venture. Changing to old clothes, Harry used a mirror to get the effect. He looked presentable enough to pa.s.s through the hotel lobby, if he didn't stay there long.

Once his trousers lost their slight crease from the rain; when he unb.u.t.toned his coat to display the old sweater that he wore instead of a vest, he would pa.s.s in the company with which he intended to a.s.sociate.

The rush hour was still on when Harry boarded a subway express train and traveled southward to Brooklyn. He didn't take a cab, after he reached his destination. Persons of his ilk walked to the neighborhood where he was going, along the waterfront.

Through the hazy drizzle, Harry finally saw a grimy light that shone upon a battered sign bearing the name: MARITIME CAFE. The place received its t.i.tle from an abandoned dock called the Maritime Pier, that bulked across the way.

Two men shoved into the eating joint, as Harry approached it. Both were as roughly clad as himself. But neither of the pair was in sight when Harryentered and sat down at a table near the back of the cafe.

As he ordered a cup of coffee, Harry was conscious of an eye that peered from a door beyond his shoulder. He paid no attention when the door creaked open wider. He expressed no more than a curious look when a tough who looked like a wharf rat sidled over to take a seat at his table.

"Your name's Vincent, ain't it?"

"Yeah," returned The Shadow's agent. "Harry Vincent."

"Swallow that Java," suggested the wharf rat, "an' slide along wid me."

Harry drank his coffee, planked down a nickel in payment. They didn't give tips in this portion of Brooklyn. But there was plenty else that they might do, particularly to anyone who didn't turn out to be what they termed a "right guy."

This was the beginning of a new adventure. What lay ahead for Harry Vincent? Who knew?

Perhaps, Harry hoped, The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER XI.

THE CORSAIR CREW.

IT was fortunate for Harry Vincent, that he had lost his recent concern regarding The Shadow's safety. Confident that his chief was in back of recent moves, Harry was nerved for anything. He needed to be.

Harry's ratty guide urged him through the door at the back of the Maritime Cafe. Coming through himself, the fellow closed it and shoved a bolt. That put them in a tiny room, completely dark. A good place for a knife thrust in the ribs, if the wharf rat chose.

The man groped past Harry, found a door in the opposite wall. He knocked, at the same time clutching Harry's arm and shoving him forward. The door was yanked inward from the other side, bringing a jabber of raucous voices along with a vast cloud of cigarette smoke.

Harry was shoved into the light, to meet the none-too-pleasant eyes of a dozen men who occupied the hidden rendezvous. Conversation stopped abruptly, as Harry's conductor stepped in beside him.

In all his encounters with thugs, Harry had never met such an ugly-looking mob. Each member of that outfit looked capable of murder; everyone had a hard glare that carried malice along with suspicion. They were like a pack of wolves; let one start a yelp, the lot would leap upon their prey.

For fangs, they had weapons, as a.s.sorted as themselves. Harry saw pockets that had the bulge of guns; knife hilts poking out from belts. One thug was slapping a blackjack against his open palm as though testing it, in case he had to use it on Harry's skull.

The wharf rat gave a nudge of his thumb toward Harry.

"This guy," he said, "is Vincent."

"H'ar'ya!" gruffed Harry to the mob. Then, picking an empty chair by the wall, he sat down in it. Once settled, he took a slow look around the group.

Tilting his chair back, he let the handle of a .45 shift over from his hip.

The tough in the next chair pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered Harry a smoke.

It wasn't until his eyes became accustomed to smoke-hazy atmosphere, that Harry saw a face he knew. He had missed the man at first glance, because the fellow was placed inconspicuously in a corner. But when Harry happened to lookhis way, the man thrust a pair of hunched shoulders forward and poked a crafty, wizened face into sight.

That man was Hawkeye, another of The Shadow's underworld agents.

Hawkeye, it seemed, wasn't supposed to know Harry; which meant that they must have been recruited separately. The most likely man behind that little job would be Cliff Marsland.

A big-shouldered hoodlum, who answered to the name of Pike, was busy checking noses. Pike had a squint-eyed manner that might have been caused by the cigarette smoke; but Harry vaguely remembered having seen him somewhere before. Finding that the whole mob was a.s.sembled, Pike started the procession out through a rear door.

It was dusk along the waterfront, but the thugs were careful not to cross the street in a crowd. They went singly, or in pairs; Harry chose the latter arrangement. It gave him a chance to slide along with Hawkeye.

He asked if Cliff had fixed it.

"Yeah," stated Hawkeye, in a side-mouthed whisper. "We've got Tapper with us, too. Cliff wanted to bring Clyde Burke along, but couldn't swing it. Right now, he's trying to ring in Jericho."

Tapper, Burke and Jericho were three more of The Shadow's many secret agents.

THEY reached the Maritime Pier, went through a thin-walled front that brought them toward the outer end of the wharf. Other mobbies were awaiting them, bringing the total close to twenty.

Alongside the pier was a low-lying craft with two stumpy masts. Lights from the deck showed faces, and Harry saw Cliff Marsland close at hand.

A chance came for Cliff to draw Harry aside. Hawkeye sidled up beside them. Tapper wasn't near, because Cliff had already talked to him.

"I met up with the mob this afternoon," undertoned Cliff. "I wouldn't have found them, if Burbank hadn't flashed me the name of their ship. It's called the Welcome, and they call the thing a lugger."

From the looks of the boat, Harry cla.s.sed it as little better than a mud scow; but his opinion changed, when he heard Cliff detail a few of the lugger's merits.

The Welcome, he said, had an auxiliary motor to help her limited sail spread. She'd have a slow time of it, chugging out through the Lower Bay, but once at sea, that motor would begin to purr. The lugger's clumsy superstructure was camouflage. Along the water line, and below, she was shaped for speed.

"We'll reach the Hercules ahead of dawn," completed Cliff. "We're supposed to take over the salvage ship, before they send the divers down."

"Who's in command?" asked Harry.

"The skipper of the Welcome," answered Cliff. "His name's Bradden. He used to have a big rep as a rumrunner. He's been getting orders, though, by radio.

Probably from Pointer Trame."

"How about Pike?" questioned Harry, remembering the man who had counted the crew back in the rendezvous. "What's he?"

"A loud mouth!" returned Cliff. "He won't rate, after we're on the lugger.

That's when Bradden takes over."

Hawkeye gave a warning that spread the cl.u.s.ter. Pike was swaggering up to talk with Cliff. "There's a guy here says he knows you," announced Pike to Cliff. "His name's Jericho Druke."

"Bring him in," rejoined Cliff. "We need him. This outfit may have to eat before we get back in port, and Jericho knows how to cook."

"Looks like he could fight, too."

"He can!"

Pike went away, to return with Jericho. The new recruit was a giant African, whose shoulders had a width more than proportionate to his height.

Cliff motioned him aboard the Welcome, telling him that the galley was at the stern.

SOMETHING was detaining the mob. Crooks were anxious to get aboard the Welcome, but Pike hadn't given the word. On the deck, Harry saw a squatly man with a scarred face beneath the battered visor of an official looking cap.

Harry identified him as the skipper, Bradden; and it was plain that the lugger's captain was chafing at the delay.

Away from the dock edge, Harry was keeping himself inconspicuous, when he was suddenly conscious of a glow behind him. He swung about, straight into the glare from a pair of headlights. An automobile had swung onto the pier.

Harry ducked away, as anyone would have, to avoid the car. But he realized that the move had made him very prominent, particularly to any persons who might have noticed him from the car. When the headlights clicked off, another light came on inside the automobile, showing it to be a sedan.

That wasn't all that Harry saw. In the rear seat, between a pair of thuggish pa.s.sengers, was a girl. Harry couldn't mistake her dark-haired get-up.

The girl was Edna Barvale, in her guise of Ruth Eldrey!

Had she seen him?

Harry wasn't sure; but he didn't like the sharp way in which the false brunette was peering from the car. One of the men in back was getting out to join Pike, who had stepped over beside the sedan. Harry was wondering what to do next, when a quick hand plucked his sleeve.

It was Hawkeye. The cagey little man had recognized Harry's dilemma.

"Slide aboard the lugger," whispered Hawkeye. "Tip off Jericho; tell him maybe you've been spotted. Have him keep an eye peeled. You lay low!"

Harry sidled to the pier edge and dropped aboard the lugger's stern, close to the galley.

Pike held conference with the man from the sedan, while the car was turning around, to be ready to leave the pier. Edna wasn't coming aboard the Welcome, which was one good factor. Still, Pike hadn't given the order for the mob to move.

Looking around, Pike saw Cliff. He introduced the husky who had come from the car.

"This is Jorgin," said Pike. "Maybe you remember him, Marsland?"

"Sure!" nodded Cliff. "He was aboard the Ozark."

"Yeah. We've been waiting for him to show up, so we could shove off.

Only, Jorgin's just told me something. He says it looks like we've got a phony in the outfit!"

Pike was moving the trio toward the inner end of the pier, which suited Cliff, because there was an old office in the wall, only a few yards behind the stern of the moored lugger. As they neared that door, Cliff suggested: "Let's step in there. So the guy, whoever he is, won't know we're wise."

Inside, Pike became direct. "You ought to know the guy," he told Cliff, bluntly. "because you signed him up!"

"Yeah?" Cliff was cool. "I signed up several others, too."

"The mug I'm talking about is Vincent."

"What makes you think he's phony?"

It was Jorgin who answered Cliff's question.

"This guy Vincent," he said, "looks a lot like a fellow that was a pa.s.senger on the Ozark. And his name's the same!"

CLIFF, at that moment, would have liked to be in the sedan that Jorgin had just left. He could fancy choking a certain young lady who was alternately a blonde and brunette. For Cliff knew that Edna Barvale, or Ruth Eldrey, whichever she chose to be, could well be the person who had recognized Harry from the car.

Maybe Jorgin was trying to take that credit for himself; but it didn't matter. The jam was a bad one.

Standing by a wide paneless window in the side wall of the empty office, Cliff looked at the faces of Pike and Jorgin. They were tough, the two of them; as dangerous as any pair of cutthroats in the entire murderous mob. Between his teeth, Cliff drew a long, slow breath of the salty water-front air.

He didn't like its flavor, any more than he did the situation. From the faces that peered at him, Cliff also realized that the worst thing he could do would be to stall.

"Wait here," grunted Cliff. "I'll send for Vincent right away."

Before the others could object, Cliff crossed to the doorway and poked his head through. He saw a shuffly figure close at hand. It was Hawkeye.

"Hey, you!" gruffed Cliff. "Find Vincent. Tell him I want to talk to him."

Cliff gave a nudge in the opposite direction. Hawkeye understood. He made a sneaking exit along the wall, to reach the street that fronted the pier.

Cliff stepped back to join the men by the window.

"I've sent for Vincent," he began. "When he gets here -"

Snarls interrupted. With them, Cliff felt his ribs nudged by gun muzzles, as Pike and Jorgin shoved close.

"Start to talk!" snapped Pike. "And talk fast! Since Vincent's phony, maybe you're the same!"

"Yeah," added Jorgin, "and we want to know!"

Cliff's teeth gritted. A minute more, and Hawkeye would provide enough diversion to make Pike and Jorgin think of persons other than Harry Vincent.

But talking wasn't in Cliff's line; not in a spot like this one. He knew the moods of thugs like Pike and Jorgin. Sometimes a command to talk was merely a come-on that would bring prompt bullets.

Making a sudden wrench away from Jorgin's gun, Cliff drove an uppercut for Pike's chin. In his hurry, Cliff's fist merely glanced the fellow's jaw, but it spoiled Pike's close-range aim. Twisting between the pair, Cliff grappled, knowing that they wouldn't shoot.

They didn't want noise, if they could help it; and they had a simpler way of handling Cliff. Individually, each could have given him an even battle.

Together, they were pressing him down between them, there beside the window, to put him so they could slug him with their guns.