The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 8

The only times that he had actually seen the pretended Raydorf were when they had met in this cabin. Here, the lights were always low, in keeping with Pointer's role of Trebble. It had taken only ordinary skill at make-up, on The Shadow's part, to pa.s.s as the secretary.

Had Pointer known of the make-up kit in Cranston's lunch box, he would have cla.s.sed the feat as very simple. But Pointer, it happened, was jumping to other thoughts.

The Shadow's challenge was an answer to Pointer's own claim, that the cloaked fighter wouldn't stand a chance aboard this yacht. It seemed that The Shadow felt he had a chance; so good a one, that he was defying the big-shot to offset it. Such a situation brought inspiration to Pointer Trame.

In the small drawer in the very middle of the desk, Pointer had a loaded revolver. That .32 would be handy, if he could reach it; but there was no opportunity for a surprise move while he faced the muzzle of The Shadow's gun.

Some surprise would have to be managed first. In his swivel chair, Pointer was holding his arms half raised. They had gone to that position instinctively, and it was good policy to keep them there.

His plight, however, did not eliminate his left elbow. It was close against the buzzer that Pointer used to summon members of the crew.

There were special calls for all of them; hence they would be alert the moment that they heard a buzz. Perhaps a signal not on the list would give them an idea that something was amiss in the big-shot's cabin.

Bracing himself tighter in the chair, as though worried by The Shadow's slowly approaching gun, Pointer let his elbow rest against the push b.u.t.ton.

He kept it there without another move. The Shadow was watching for jogs of Pointer's elbow; when none came, he supposed that Pointer had lost nerve.

MEANWHILE, in parts of the ship beyond hearing from the cabin, a prolonged signal was causing speculation among Pointer's crew.

A full minute must have pa.s.sed before Pointer suddenly weakened under The Shadow's pressure. Slumping in his chair, the big-shot adopted a hoa.r.s.e tone that sounded like a plea. He was ready to call it quits, he claimed; to take whatever punishment The Shadow ordered, provided it wouldn't be death.

He wasn't a murderer, Pointer argued. If people had gone down with ships that he had sunk, it hadn't been intended. Pointer said that as if he meant it; but the false note ended when The Shadow provided a whispered laugh.

The Shadow had discovered half the truth; namely, that Pointer's whines were a stall. As yet, however, he had not divined what Pointer expected to gain from such tiring tactics. It wasn't long before The Shadow knew; for the explanation arrived with sudden emphasis.

A sound came from the cabin door. Sensing its meaning, The Shadow spun around, to see the door fly inward. In the doorway cl.u.s.tered a trio of Pointer's thugs, all with revolvers. In numbers, they had The Shadow instantly outmatched.

His advantages, it proved, were greater.

The arrivals hadn't expected to find anything more serious than a dispute between Pointer and Raydorf; or perhaps some trouble with a third party, like Hartley. Sight of The Shadow was the last thing possible their one-track minds could have conceived, and they weren't prepared for it.

Guns lowered, they couldn't fire at first sight, and therewith they lost their only chance. The Shadow was on the move before they actually spied him, coming right their way. An avalanche of black, that sprouted big guns from both hands, was menace enough to throw them into chaos.

They scrambled for the pa.s.sage, aiming futilely as they went. Guns popped, but the fingers that pulled the triggers were yanking far too soon. Shots spattered wide; then The Shadow was among them. He didn't waste bullets on such easy prey. He simply landed the dead weight of his guns upon the dodging heads about him.

Feverishly, Pointer Trame yanked open the middle drawer and found his revolver, hoping to join the fray. He fired two shots at the door, but The Shadow was gone when he got there. His revolver still smoking, Pointer aimed at blackness on the companionway. He dropped back as a gun tongued. That shot, TheShadow's first, missed Pointer by a scant quarter inch.

Shouts were being raised above, prompted by the puny shots that crooks had delivered below. That was why The Shadow hadn't waited to deal with Pointer.

The s.p.a.ce below was a coop; he wanted to be out of it. So did Pointer.

Risking everything upon his guess that The Shadow wouldn't stop again, Pointer followed. From the top of the companionway, he took another shot at a vague thing in black. The target was too elusive. Pointer's only reward was a returning laugh.

From his own concealment in the entry to the deck, Pointer watched a fray that brought him amazement, which gradually developed into cold fear. Not once did he have a chance to fire on his own, for always there were other figures between him and The Shadow.

All that Pointer could do was witness The Shadow's meeting of the very test that the big-shot had claimed would be too great for anyone, even for The Shadow.

WHIRLING along the skiddy deck, The Shadow was everywhere, yet nowhere.

Everywhere, when he needed to settle any of the dozen thugs who tried to halt him. Nowhere; whenever one of them tried to pick him off. He seemed a pivoting turret, delivering broadsides from a blackish smoke screen.

The only reason the fight persisted, was because his adversaries thought they could fell him when he ran out of ammunition.

Like Trame, they didn't know that The Shadow was depending on reserves.

More members of the thuggish crew were piling into battle; there were nearly a score of them, in all. Others, however, were finding this fray their promise of emanc.i.p.ation from the tyranny of Pointer Trame.

They were ready, with guns that Pointer didn't know about - Hartley and the other loyal men aboard. Nestled in cabin doors and hatchways, they supplied a sniping fire that took out some of The Shadow's most dangerous foeman.

Even Hartley, with his feeble eyes, was showing a good average. Crooks were cl.u.s.tering so thick that the steward couldn't miss.

Like a wave, one batch of men drove along the deck, hoping to overwhelm The Shadow before he could handle more than half of them. With the start of that rush came the jabs of sniping guns. Mobsters stumbled; their pals tripped over them. The wave disintegrated into a straggly rush.

Hoa.r.s.ely, crooks were cursing one another; in their confusion, they couldn't find The Shadow, until he was flinging right into the remnants of them, slashing down with gun blows alternated with timely shots.

Such chaos produced another result, that Pointer saw with bulging eyes.

Men were shouting to The Shadow that they would fight for him against the crew.

The man who started it was the dapper officer, a fellow that Pointer had always regarded as a misfit in the mob. He was bringing others to his viewpoint, and The Shadow was pointing them into battle.

They weren't crooks; nor were they turncoats. They were men who had been hired by Trebble as genuine crew members, after Pointer had looked them over.

The big-shot had counted upon making them into desperadoes, but had never found the need. He'd figured they would play along in case of battle, as they might have, in any strife that looked legitimate.

But they were inspired by the sight of one lone warrior staving off a score of howling ruffians who had openly revealed themselves as murderers. No square shooter could resist the urge to join with The Shadow's side.

Before Pointer understood it, the fight took a sudden shift. Men were driving hard again in ma.s.s attack, but bullets weren't being fired to stopthem. The men who had begun the drive were those who had joined with The Shadow.

He was among them, pouring that human surge along the deck, sweeping crooks toward the yacht's bow. His newly enlisted men were out from cover, shouting triumphantly as they joined the charge.

They were flattening killers, trampling over them, taking their guns right out of their hands; and moving to the front was The Shadow, stabbing his last few shots as spearhead of the human wedge. Pointer Trame, agape, was staring at an area which was deserted except for motionless crooks.

His crew was wiped out - or would be soon - except for the half-groggy men who were coming up the companionway to join him. They were all upon whom Pointer could depend. He shouted at them, tugged them onto the deck, where they could catch their wits.

Suddenly aroused, those few last followers joined Pointer in a dash for the tender that hung above the yacht's stern. The big-shot blundered when he tried to help them lower it, so he gave up that task and stood guard with his gun while they worked on the davits.

THE Marmora's engines had stopped. In the calm sea, the dropping of the boat was easy. Only a few moments more were needed, and during those, Pointer gave tense thoughts to the doc.u.ments in his cabin desk. His reflections ended with a sneer.

The Shadow could have those spoils, if he wanted them. On his person, Pointer had credentials that bore the name of Jerome Trebble, and the ones still in the desk wouldn't matter. Raydorf's forgeries were items of perfection and would stand any test.

As for the Barvale correspondence, Pointer wanted it, but calculated that he could as well leave it where it was. Those letters would pin the goods on Barvale; which had been Pointer's own ultimate intention. The Shadow's hands would be the right place for that evidence. He would turn it over to the law.

The tender was ready to put off. Pointer heard its motor throbbing; he rolled across the rail, to drop in among its tiny crew. As he went, Pointer spat final oaths toward The Shadow. Once again, he wished that he might have a chance to try his own hand at ridding crime of its greatest foe.

Out from darkness came the answer to that wish: The Shadow, driving for the stern of the Marmora, alone!

Attracted by the noise of the tender's motor, he had left his followers at the yacht's bow, the place of final victory. Knowing that Trame was staging a getaway, The Shadow was coming back to halt it.

He had his automatics. They were empty, but that did not deter him. The Shadow's last leap ended in a shortened lunge that spilled him headlong by the stern rail. He had tripped over a wedge-shaped deck cleat.

From the force of the sprawl, Pointer saw that The Shadow had taken a thump that left him groggy. It was double luck for Pointer Trame.

Not only was the big-shot safe; he had his chance to settle with The Shadow. And Pointer put all his venom behind the deed. Aiming his revolver through the rail, he tongued three knifelike spurts straight at The Shadow's heart. At that short distance his bullets could hardly fail.

Men were shouting as they raced back to aid The Shadow. Pointer snapped a command to the tender's crew. The motorboat sped away, Pointer crouching with the others, to avoid the barrage that came from the Marmora. Out of range, Pointer poked his head up above the gunwale. Back on the yacht, he could see men stooping above a flattened motionless shape in black. Pointer forced a hoa.r.s.e laugh back across the spreading water. It was his answer to The Shadow's earlier challenge; a raucous jeer that pleased Pointer, even though he considered it unnecessary.

The Shadow, Pointer reasoned, couldn't hear that laugh. People didn't hear things after a triple dose of bullets.

This time - the smoking gun in Pointer's hand was proof - The Shadow was dead!

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SALVAGE SHIP.

THERE was one thing badly wrong with the lugger Welcome. She was too fast.

Bradden, the scar-faced skipper, wouldn't have agreed with that opinion, for he was proud of the ugly ship's speed. But the matter was a source of worry to The Shadow's agents.

"We'll be getting there before dawn," Cliff Marsland told Harry Vincent.

"An hour before, easily. That's going to be bad!"

They were at the lugger's bow, where the water slapped up from the streamlined hull, to swash the crude slats that served as camouflage. Hawkeye and Tapper, a few paces away, were keeping watch while the others conferred.

If Cliff's estimate proved correct, it wouldn't be long before the Welcome reached the salvage ship Hercules.

"Another thing," Cliff added. "Those wireless calls quit a while ago.

Bradden doesn't know where they were coming from, except that the big-shot sent them. I saw him checking in a code book, to find out what they meant.

"We know, though, that they came from the Marmora. I don't like the way they stopped. It doesn't worry Bradden, because he heard all he needed. But there should be more of them."

Harry had a suggestion: "Maybe The Shadow has taken over."

"Let's hope so," chimed Cliff. "But that's all the more reason why he'd flash a few calls through."

"Unless some of Trame's mob happened to put the wireless out of order."

Harry's suggestion eased Cliff's worry. It sounded plausible; and it was actually better than a guess. That very thing had happened aboard the Marmora.

But there were other things that had occurred on the yacht. Could The Shadow's agents have seen a picture of them, the result would have been severe.

That scene, for instance, where Pointer Trame had jabbed three point-blank shots at a helpless figure in black. Trame's last glimpse back, too, from the fleeing tender.

"If we can stall things off," Cliff finally decided, "it will help a lot.

Bradden might listen; because I've been getting along with him well enough.

He's boss, though, and everybody on this packet knows it."

They went down to see Bradden, in a part.i.tioned portion of the hold that served him as a cabin. Cliff introduced Harry and the scar-faced skipper shoved out a friendly paw. He looked interested when he saw a member of the mob who seemed to have more than a fighter's intelligence.

Cliff had impressed Bradden, but chiefly by his bluntness. Harry was a different case, in the skipper's opinion. It was plain that he studied faces, rather than attire. But if he was wondering what had brought Harry into theoutfit, nothing that he said could have indicated it.

"WHAT'S the lay, skipper?" queried Cliff. "Going to hold back the mob until we see how things look?"

Bradden shook his head.

"As soon as we get there," he declared, gruffly, "we crack down. I've got orders to take over that salvage scow, or whatever sort of rig she is, and the sooner it's done, the better."

"It may be tough, working in the dark," suggested Cliff. "We found it that way on the Ozark."

Bradden scowled. It was Harry who caught the reason why. The skipper of the Welcome evidently thought that the wrecking of the Ozark had been a dirty job. He could stand for piracy, which was his present mission; but he apparently regarded the Ozark affair as mutiny, which went against his halfway code of ethics.

Despite himself, Harry couldn't dislike Bradden. He felt that if they could have reached the fellow before this expedition started, Bradden would have listened to reason. His nature, though, was well sprinkled with stubbornness; the sort that wouldn't turn back.

"When we do take over," remarked Cliff, "what about the diving job? Who's going to handle that?"

"The diver they've got aboard the Hercules," returned Bradden. "Were you ever on the bottom in one of them diving suits?"

Cliff said that he hadn't been.

"I have," announced Bradden, "and when you're down there, you're hoping n.o.body's going to forget you! We'll tell the diver we won't forget him, if he brings up that strong box in a hurry!"

Bradden smacked his open palm upon a stack of boxes that served him as a table. From the way the pile rattled, he evidently meant what he said.

"I'm telling you this," gruffed the skipper. "I don't like the racket you fellows are in. That ain't criticizing neither of you personally, because a man's got a right to do what he chooses. But I don't see sticking dirks in people's backs and poking guns in their bellies.

"That's why I say the sooner done, the better. Because the sooner it's done, the easier. Which means less people hurt. Maybe none."

Cliff supplied a leer that would have befitted the ugliest mobbie aboard the lugger. He was trying a different tack with Bradden.

"You don't know this outfit," said Cliff. "Give them the dark, that's when they go to it. If you're feeling soft about those boys aboard the salvage ship, you're making a big mistake. There won't be one of them left when this crowd of gorillas gets through. This bunch will bring back everything but their scalps!"

Bradden wasn't convinced.

"I'm following my judgment," he persisted. "Maybe you're right, maybe you ain't. I still figger I'm right."

A head poked down the hatchway. It was one of Bradden's crew, announcing that they had sighted the lights of the salvage ship.

"Cut off them motors!" bawled Bradden, through to the hole that served as engine room. "And tell the man at the helm to ease alongside!"