The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 7

Flaying his arms about, Cliff hoped to ward off the coming strokes until Hawkeye could produce the needed interlude; but the fight was hopeless. Pikeand Jorgin showed teamwork.

With their free hands, they gathered Cliff's arms behind him. Twisted, his face half upward, Cliff could see a gun fist rise on either side, against the glow of the gaping window.

Cliff's jaw set itself; his eyes went shut. He regretted that afterward, for he didn't see what happened next.

Through the window s.p.a.ce came spreading arms that looked like mammoth pincers. On the ends of them, instead of claws, were objects the size of hams.

They were the hands of Jericho Druke.

THE jolly African giant didn't reach for the raising guns. Instead, he clamped his mighty fists on necks, taking each in a choking grip that practically encircled it.

Gurgles issued from the mouths of Pike and Jorgin, They beat out wildly with their guns, trying to whack Jericho's head. Jericho dodged those slashes, until Pike's gun grazed him. The big man gave an annoyed grunt. He looked at the heads that stuck above his fists, as a purchaser might examine a pair of coconuts.

Swinging his arms outward, then inward with all his force, Jericho cracked those heads together. Cliff heard the sharp impact; it still seemed to echo when Pike and Jorgin slumped beside him, their necks released from Jericho's terrific clutch.

The thugs weren't gurgling any longer.

Before Cliff could gulp words to Jericho, the sharp sound of gunfire began outside the pier. Jericho moved from beyond the window, following the dock ledge back to the Welcome. Leaving the senseless forms of Pike and Jorgin, Cliff hustled out to the pier.

The sedan's lights had come on again. Into their glare came Hawkeye, on the run. He had fired the shots outside, but his gun was tucked away.

"It's the cops!" bawled Hawkeye. "They're wise to something!"

He gestured for the car to get started. and it did. Cliff caught a startled look from the false-tanned face of Edna Barvale, as the sedan wheeled by him. From the distance came the timely whine of a police siren.

A patrol car had heard the gunfire, was heading for the waterfront, giving corroboration to Hawkeye's wild claim that the cops were on the job.

From the deck of the Welcome, Bradden was taking charge. He was motioning mobsters aboard, not bothering to see if Pike, Jorgin, or anyone else happened to be among these.

Nor did the mob wait for orders from their missing pals. They landed on the lugger's deck in droves, scurried for the hold and the forecastle like rats seeking holes.

The Welcome was chugging forward when Cliff and Hawkeye leaped to its deck, the last of the boarding throng. While the police car's siren still screeched inquiringly from somewhere on sh.o.r.e, the lugger lost itself in the hazy blackish drizzle out beyond the Maritime Pier.

Cliff found Harry and drew him toward the stern, to tell him all that had happened. They saw a light below a short companionway, and heard a sizzling sound. They looked down to see Jericho, stooped in a galley hardly bigger than himself. He was wearing an ap.r.o.n and a chef's hat, and was leaning over a stove.

Jericho looked upward. He saw the faces above him and grinned. Deftlyhandling a skillet, Jericho divided its contents into two plates, which he thrust toward the companionway.

"Ham an' eggs," announced Jericho, "coming up!"

CHAPTER XII.

POINTER CHANGES PLANS.

SEATED near the stern of the Marmora, Pointer Trame watched the drizzle smother the wake that churned from the yacht's propeller. It was well after midnight; time to turn in, if Trame expected to be up in the morning.

By then, the Marmora would be entering New London harbor. As Jerome Trebble, Pointer would have a perfect alibi to cover the hour when the Welcome met the Hercules, miles southward off the New Jersey coast.

There was another matter, too, that would be settled in Boston. It was the disappearance of the yacht's erstwhile guest, Lamont Cranston.

Flinging his cigar across the rail, Pointer arose to stretch beneath the canopy that covered the rear deck. Two members of the crew saluted as they pa.s.sed; and Trame saw Hartley entering a companionway.

It didn't matter if the steward noticed Pointer. Under the feeble deck lights, the crook looked enough like Trebble to deceive Hartley's old eyes - so Pointer thought.

As for the others who had once known Trebble, they were all below deck.

Pointer always kept these there.

Stopping at the wireless room, Pointer picked up a sheaf of messages that had come in and gone out over the air during the day. Raydorf had attended to those; these copies were duplicates. Since the Marmora was riding steadily through a sea much milder than that of the night before, Pointer didn't have to grab for the hand rail while descending to his big cabin. He was able, too, to read the messages.

Raydorf had handled them as well as usual. Into long, wordy dispatches that purported to come from Jerome Trebble he had introduced occasional code words from the book that Pointer and his followers used. No one, so far, had even begun to guess that radiograms from the Marmora contained the sparks that set off human dynamite, in the form of crooks.

Today, with crime reaching its climax, Raydorf had been particularly careful to make the messages lengthy. At present, Raydorf was finishing another task, and a highly important one. Pointer was hopeful that it had come up to expectations.

Reaching the cabin, Pointer found Raydorf seated at the desk. He was doing a task that The Shadow had viewed the night before: forging a signature.

Approaching, Pointer watched the man's handiwork beneath a down-tilted lamp.

Raydorf gave a triumphant chuckle, and the big-shot duplicated it.

"Excellent, Raydorf!" said Pointer, in the wheedling tone that he had cultivated. "That compares perfectly with Cranston's signature. You did well, finding those identification cards in his cabin."

Raydorf arose from the desk, helped himself to one of Trame's Havana cigars. He rubbed his eyes to ease their strain, then put on the spectacles, that arched so importantly from his high-bridged nose.

"It wasn't easy," he said, suavely. "Look at the first tries I made. They were away off. But right now" - he wiggled his fingers, to end their cramp - "I.

could sign Cranston's name with my eyes shut!"

Pointer agreed that Raydorf could. "Tomorrow," said the big-shot, "I want you to leave for Montreal. Stay there a few days; then go West. Keep sending letters, all in Cranston's name."

"Where to?" asked Raydorf.

"To me, at first," replied Pointer. "Before you leave Montreal, you will hear from me; giving further details. By that time, I shall know much more about Lamont Cranston."

"How about cashing checks?"

The question brought a chuckle from Pointer.

"Always practical, aren't you, Raydorf? Yes, you can cash checks on Cranston's account; but do it cautiously. By all means, avoid meeting anyone who knows Cranston personally."

THERE was silence, while the yacht's engines supplied a low-thrummed tune.

Then Pointer, seated at the desk, spoke suddenly in a voice that was not Trebble's. His tone was a harsh one, tinged with venom.

"Five of us!" rasped Pointer. "We were The Hand. We had the whole of New York just like that" - he extended his hand, fingers upward, and closed it like a clutching claw - "until The Shadow spoiled the game! After that, it was every man for himself.

"Pinkey Findlen went in for blackmail. He was fool enough to stay in New York, and The Shadow got him. (Note: See "The Hand" Vol. XXV, No. 6.) Ring Brescott sold murder, in Philadelphia. He went too strong with it; The Shadow finished him. (Note: See "Murder for Sale" Vol. XXVI, No. 3.) Steve Bydle - Long Steve, we called him - had a swell racket out in Chi. But The Shadow bobbed up and ended it, along with Steve. (Note: See "Chicago Crime" Vol.

XXVII, No. 6.) Savagely, Pointer chewed off the end of a cigar, as if the deed were a tribute to the memory of his vanished pals. Then came his chuckle, raucous.

"I dodged The Shadow," admitted the big-shot, "but he found me finally.

Found me, the Pointer, the Finger that could always pick them out! I fell for it; but I had the setup. This yacht was a bad spot for The Shadow."

"Not so bad," inserted the secretary, bluntly. "It was just luck that I spotted him. If I'd gone over the side, instead of him, where would you be, chief?"

"Right here!" snapped Pointer. "Even The Shadow wouldn't have had the guts to knock me off, with a whole crew in back of me! If he'd gotten rid of you, Raydorf, I'd have known it inside of half an hour."

Raydorf didn't dispute the point. There was merit in what Trame said. The men aboard the Marmora worked in a close-knit system. As it happened, one of the crew had reported Cranston's final absence from his cabin, last night, only a few minutes before Raydorf had appeared to tell Pointer of his battle with The Shadow.

"I'm giving you credit, Raydorf," insisted Pointer. "You got rid of The Shadow; that's all anybody could ask. Before we get to New London, we'll be rid of Hartley and the rest that we don't need. Right here" - he yanked open a drawer at the left of the desk - "I've got all the signed papers I need to pa.s.s as Jerome Trebble, without the testimony of a half-blind steward."

There was a check book in the drawer; some of the checks were unsigned.

Pointer pa.s.sed it to Raydorf, who added Trebble's signature to the remaining blanks. Shutting that drawer, Pointer yanked open the one on the right.

"I'm taking these Barvale letters with me," he told Raydorf, "when I goto New York. He's sitting prettier than he ought to be, Barvale is. If he doesn't like the terms the way I put them, I'll show him the letters.

"The way things have worked, he's got nothing on me and I've got everything on him! Maybe" - Pointer's eyes narrowed cunningly - "I'll let these letters get around, no matter what Barvale says. They'd be evidence anywhere - and what use is Barvale, now that the jobs are finished?

"No use, except to be shown up as the guy in back of everything. He can take the rap, while I stick to this Trebble racket until I get sick of it."

WHILE Pointer was ramming the desk drawer shut, he heard a query from Raydorf. The secretary wanted to know what Pointer would do if he required more signatures. Pointer had a prompt answer.

"Those can wait," he said, "until you get back. It will only take you a couple of weeks, Raydorf, to make it look as if Cranston got lost somewhere up around Alaska."

Raydorf had opened a closet. He turned around, to question: "What about these?"

The secretary was holding The Shadow's hat and cloak. Pointer gave a sneer at sight of the bedraggled garments. Empty, they looked very pitiful.

"I'll keep them," decided Pointer, with a snort. "Souvenirs of The Shadow!

The guy that scared everybody, until he got his! He used to worry them with his laugh. Well, that's all The Shadow is right now - a laugh!"

Pointer swung around to the desk. He saw the little calendar, marked with its date, the thirteenth. But it was after midnight, so the date was wrong.

Pointer began to change it. While thus engaged, he heard Raydorf speaking from his elbow.

"You're making one mistake, chief," came the oily tone. "You oughtn't to be heading in for New London."

"Why not?" demanded Pointer, still busy with the calendar. "That's the best port we can make."

"Maybe you'll be needed, along with the Welcome -"

"Not a chance! That's going to be a cinch! I checked on the coast guard by wireless. There's no cutters near enough to make trouble. Besides, this New London trip is our alibi."

Pointer spoke with an emphasis that should have settled the discussion.

He jammed the next date card in its place and leaned back to look at it. He was glad that the thirteenth was past. Like most crooks, Pointer Trame was superst.i.tious.

Again came Raydorf's argumentative tone: "If we gave up New London and made our course -"

"Are you crazy, Raydorf?" snapped Pointer. "I've told you that I've made my plans."

"And so have I!"

It wasn't Raydorf's voice that spoke those words. The voice that uttered them was one that Pointer Trame had never expected to hear again, in life. It was incredible, unbelievable, that it should have spoken here, in this cabin where Pointer and Raydorf were alone.

The door was unlocked, yet no one could have entered stealthily enough to have deceived both criminals. a.s.suming, for argument, that someone had entered, he couldn't be the person with that weird voice that awoke living shudders.The owner of that tone was dead!

But was he dead? Grim doubt seized Pointer Trame. Wheeling, the big-shot saw Raydorf; but the man's appearance had changed. From Raydorf's shoulders hung a black cloak; clamped upon his head was a slouch hat.

A snarl slipped from Pointer's throat.

This was Raydorf's idea of humor a masquerade in that black garb that he had brought from the closet. The big-shot expected the secretary to fling aside the garments and give a rousing chuckle.

Instead, a hand moved from beneath the cloak. It was gloved; it clutched a heavy automatic. The muzzle trained like a cold, unblinking eye, straight toward Pointer Trame.

Hidden lips delivered a laugh - a sinister taunt that Raydorf could never have duplicated. A whispery foretaste of doom, the mockery crept through the cabin, stirring ghoulish echoes from the walls.

Chilled by the gibe, Pointer scarcely saw the burning eyes that bored upon him from above the leveled gun.

Pointer Trame was hearing the laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER XIII.

BROKEN BATTLE.

BOTCHED thoughts bewildered Pointer Trame, as he realized that he was faced by The Shadow, in actuality. Out of that befuddlement sprang recollections that began to explain The Shadow's presence.

It all hinged on a supposition that had been expressed in this very cabin, only a short while ago.

If Raydorf, instead of Cranston, had gone overboard the night before - That was exactly what had happened!

The Shadow's .45 had triumphed over Raydorf's knife, in that struggle on the deck. Unstabbed, The Shadow had punctured the crook's heart with a bullet during the final moment of action. He had let Raydorf's body go from the rail of the dipping Marmora.

From then on, The Shadow had followed victory with strategy. He had taken Raydorf's place, and had done it with consummate skill. Nevertheless, it hadn't been a grueling task, as Pointer Trame reviewed it.