The Shadow - The Key Part 4

"Very good, Senhor. That will be our last contact with Brazil. But remember, you must be careful thatSigler does not suspect."

"That will be easy. Come here with your evidence. Bring your credentials. You can then tell me your story officially and present the evidence. We will go to the captain, with the evidence still in your possession."

"It is agreed, Senhor."

Edwin Berlett conducted Carlos Mendoza to the door of the cabin. He waited until the Brazilian had pa.s.sed along the corridor. Then Berlett, himself, stepped from the cabin. As he turned to close the door, the lawyer stared back into his room. He smiled as he noted the door to the wardrobe closet, which was visibly ajar.

STROLLING to the smoking salon, Berlett seated himself in a chair and lighted a cigar. Five minutes later, Sigler appeared. Berlett was writing memoranda upon a sheet of paper when the secretary found him.

"Take care of these letters," ordered Berlett, pa.s.sing his penciled items to Sigler. "Hurry them through and mail them ash.o.r.e, by air mail. You have an hour yet, Sigler."

"Yes, sir."

The secretary thrust the notes in his pocket. He left the smoking salon. Edwin Berlett settled back in his chair.

Glancing about, he saw no sign of Carlos Mendoza. Edwin Berlett chuckled. Strolling from the salon, he reached the gangplank and also went ash.o.r.e.

Carlos Mendoza had suggested a clever game as a follow-up of his note to Edwin Berlett. Warren Sigler had overheard the talk in full. There was a reason for Edwin Berlett's chuckle. The crafty lawyer could foresee a different outcome than the one called for in his conversation with Carlos Mendoza.

CHAPTER VI. OUTSIDE THE HARBOR.

DYING light of day guided the Southern Star on the final stage of its pa.s.sage through the Pernambuco reef. The s.h.i.+p had been delayed due to loading. The Brazilian pilot, however, had still gained sufficient daylight to reach the open sea.

Then night had arrived with the booming suddenness so common in the tropics. Edwin Berlett and other pa.s.sengers were standing near the stern of the Southern Star gazing toward the distant lights of Pernambuco.

A hand plucked at Berlett's sleeve. The lawyer turned to see the steadied face of Carlos Mendoza.

Berlett nodded. He spoke in a low tone.

"In fifteen minutes," said the lawyer, "in my stateroom. The door is open."

Mendoza stalked away. Warren Sigler, peering from a group of pa.s.sengers, observed the Brazilian heading for a companionway. Sigler had overheard the words between the two men.

Edwin Berlett walked toward the steps that he customarily took to the smoking salon. Reaching another deck, he hurried along and neared the bow of the s.h.i.+p. There were no pa.s.sengers in sight. Berlett glanced over his shoulder. Confident that he was un.o.bserved, he descended by a companionway.

Picking a course which he had evidently chosen beforehand, Berlett reached the forward hold. Hestepped through a bulkhead. Straight in front, he saw starlight glittering through the side of the s.h.i.+p. A coal hatch was open. Berlett reached his goal.

Below, the pilot s.h.i.+p was ready to cast off. It was nestled against the side of the Southern Star, resting in a calm sea. Calls from above indicated that the steams.h.i.+p was about to drop the pilot.

Directly below, two men were standing beside a heap of sacks near the stern of the pilot s.h.i.+p. Burlap showed almost white, in a blackened stretch against the side of the Southern Star. The sacks were less than ten feet below the spot where Berlett stood.

The lawyer gave a soft hiss. He could see the white caps nodding on the heads of the men just below him. Edging out through the coal hatch, Berlett half dropped, half sprang. He thudded softly on the pile of sacks.

The two men, roustabouts from Pernambuco, were quick to act. Stepping together, they formed a s.h.i.+eld as Berlett dropped into a s.p.a.ce beside the engine room of the pilot s.h.i.+p. Heaving sacks aside, the men let the burlap pile upon the lawyer. Each stooped and mumbled low words in turn. In response, Berlett's right hand slipped money into eager fists. The roustabouts seated themselves beside the sacks.

The pilot was aboard his s.h.i.+p. The little craft moved clear of the Southern Star. The big engines of the liner grumbled; the twenty-thousand-ton s.h.i.+p moved forward, while the pilot's boat swerved for its return through the reef to Pernambuco.

The coal hatch had closed in the side of the Southern Star The last sign of Edwin Berlett's clever departure had been eliminated. Under the protection of the bribed Brazilians, the American lawyer was returning in safety to Pernambuco. With the harbor reached, his departure from the sacks that hid him would be a simple matter. Expectant roustabouts were counting on another bribe. Their lips were sealed.

The story of Berlett's escape would remain unknown.

ABOARD the Southern Star, Warren Sigler was watching the fading light of the little pilot s.h.i.+p. The secretary's face wore a thoughtful smile. He was planning a surprise trip to Berlett's cabin. The time was here. Leaving his place by the rail, Sigler strolled, whistling, toward the companionway.

Three men by the rail-new pa.s.sengers on at Pernambuco-stared as Sigler pa.s.sed. A few minutes later, they left the place where they had been standing and entered the s.h.i.+p.

All this while, Carlos Mendoza was seated in a small cabin, waiting. Satisfied that the time for his appointment was nearing, the Brazilian arose and picked up a small bag that lay beside him. He left his own cabin, walked along deserted pa.s.sages and reached Berlett's stateroom. He opened the door and entered. He laid his bag on Berlett's bed and unlocked the little grip.

Warren Sigler, watching from the end of a pa.s.sage, had seen Mendoza enter. He had seen Edwin Berlett leave the deck some time before. Evidently Sigler was not worrying about his new employer.

Mendoza- the man with the evidence-was the arrival for whom Sigler had posted himself.

Sigler sneaked forward. Softly, he opened the door of the stateroom. He entered. He looked about for Mendoza. All that he saw was the open bag upon the bed.

Advancing, Sigler glanced about. Still no sign of his man. Puzzled, Sigler stood still. Then curiosity gained the better of him. He pounced upon the bag, only to find it empty.

A creepy laugh came from the corner by the open door. Sigler whirled. He shuddered at the form which he saw before him. Instead of Mendoza, he was viewing a tall being clad entirely in black. Cloaked andwith broad-brimmed hat, this spectral figure was covering the astonished secretary with an automatic.

A crook by profession, the false secretary knew the ident.i.ty of the being who trapped him. He was faced by The Shadow. Dully, he realized that the role of Carlos Mendoza had been but a disguise for this supersleuth. Living in Rio de Janeiro, Warren Sigler had thought but little of The Shadow, the grim fighter whose prowess was so famous in New York.

To-night, he was learning that the arm of The Shadow reached far. Minion of a master crook, Warren Sigler was trapped aboard the Steams.h.i.+p Southern Star, less than an hour out of Pernambuco.

"Speak!" The Shadow's tone came in a shuddering hiss. "Speak, murderer- or die-"

The challenge ended in a whispered laugh. It brought stark terror to Warren Sigler; with terror came the futile frenzy that only horror can produce.

With a wild cry, Sigler leaped forward toward The Shadow. He was pouncing for that looming automatic. The Shadow did not fire. His free arm, swinging like a plunger, sent Sigler sprawling by the stateroom door. The man's cry, however, had served as a signal.

There were bounding footsteps in the pa.s.sage. As The Shadow whirled out from the door, he was met by three men, two coming from one direction; one from the other.

Hired thugs from Pernambuco, Sigler had held them in readiness. The secretary had entered the stateroom to parley with Mendoza. With all pa.s.sengers on distant decks, enjoying the welcome cool of the night, a.s.sa.s.sination had seemed an easy task.

THE SHADOW, in his whirl to the pa.s.sage, met the two men first. His automatic thundered as these fighters raised revolvers to shoot him down. Two quick shots; the hired a.s.sa.s.sins sprawled wounded in the pa.s.sage.

The Shadow whirled, dropping as he did. The third a.s.sailant had swung to aim. The man fired; his bullet whistled through the tip of The Shadow's slouch hat.

The Shadow's laugh came resounding as his black-garbed shoulders dived forward. Tripping over the plunging form, the third Brazilian went headlong upon his fellows.

The Shadow had played a daring game, counting upon the inefficiency of the would-be slayers. He could not have battled thus with New York gangsters. The hired South Americans, however, were of inferior caliber in a close-range fight.

One man was p.r.o.ne on the pa.s.sage floor as The Shadow rose. The second, wounded, had struggled to his feet and was diving to the pa.s.sage that led to the deck. With him was the unwounded man whom The Shadow had spilled.

The two men fired wildly as they hustled for cover. As they headed for the deck, The Shadow swung in pursuit. Trapped by the rail, the startled South Americans turned to aim back into the side pa.s.sage as The Shadow came lunging upon them.

The Shadow had picked the unwounded man. Like a living avalanche he struck the thug before the man could fire. The automatic, swinging, dealt a glancing blow to the fellow's head. The South American sprawled to the deck as The Shadow whirled free.

The wounded man was shooting. His aim was wide. His shots missed the swiftly-moving target; it was not until The Shadow swung upright that he gained a perfect chance to fire. As the man's nervous fingerfumbled with the trigger, The Shadow loosed a slug from the automatic. The shot found the man's right wrist. Already wounded in the left shoulder, the fellow dropped his gun and fell groaning to the deck.

Again, The Shadow's laugh; with it a sudden shot from the pa.s.sage. Warren Sigler, recovered, had dashed to the scene of the fray. Arriving at the deck, the frenzied secretary had staked all on a quick shot at the black-garbed figure that had whirled to a spot beside the rail, more than twenty feet away.

Sigler could handle a.r.s.enic better than an automatic. The bullet from his .38 whizzed through the sweeping fold of The Shadow's cloak and found its only lodging in the rail. Sigler steadied for a second shot that never came from his gun. It was The Shadow's .45 that boomed instead.

Aiming for a murderer who sought his life, The Shadow did not fail. His single shot was the final reward that Warren Sigler gained for treachery to a kindly master. The false secretary fell dead upon the deck.

Cries from above. Scurrying feet on the deck above The Shadow's head. The black-garbed victor made his quick return toward the inner pa.s.sage. Leaping over Sigler's dead body he gained the inner pa.s.sage before s.h.i.+p's officers arrived. Choosing an open course, he faded from view.

CONFUSION reigned aboard the Southern Star. Warren Sigler was found dead; also a pa.s.senger from Pernambuco. Two other South Americans, one wounded, the other stunned, were discovered on the deck.

Quizzing convinced the captain that these men were of criminal status. One hour later, all the pa.s.sengers aboard the s.h.i.+p were a.s.sembled in the dining salon for a rigid check-up. Two were found to be missing.

One was a Brazilian named Carlos Mendoza, concerning whom no information was available. The other was Edwin Berlett, a prominent New York attorney, in whose stateroom the battle had begun, and whose secretary, Warren Sigler, had been killed.

There was but one conclusion. Despite the denials of the stunned South American who had come to his senses, it was decided that the armed thugs had thrown Berlett overboard. The ocean, too, was picked as the final resting place of Carlos Mendoza.

Because Mendoza was unknown, it was decided that he must have been a member of the crooked crew.

A fight was pictured on the deck. Berlett, going over the rail, dragging Mendoza with him, while Warren Sigler-not suspected of treachery-battled to save his helpless master, Edwin Berlett.

The captured South Americans admitted that they had been hired to come aboard the s.h.i.+p; but they claimed that their orders had been gained from Rio. They had been told to aid a man who whistled; that was all. Their nationality was a point that incriminated the missing Carlos Mendoza as their leader.

LATER, a tall figure was standing alone near the stern of the Southern Star. The deck light revealed the steady, masklike features of Lamont Cranston. But the whispered laugh that floated across the propeller-churned tropical sea was the echoed mirth of The Shadow.

Alone, of those aboard the Southern Star, The Shadow knew the true story of Carlos Mendoza. The Shadow had booked two pa.s.sages on this s.h.i.+p. He had come aboard twice; once as Lamont Cranston, again as Carlos Mendoza. No one had suspected that a single pa.s.senger had played the part of two men between Rio and Pernambuco.

It was with faked talk of evidence that The Shadow had brought about a climax. His threatened exposure of Warren Sigler, based upon observations at the Hotel Nacional, had been sufficient to prepare a death warrant for the so-called Carlos Mendoza. Also, The Shadow alone could have revealed the fact that Edwin Berlett had not perished. The Shadow knew that Berlett had followed through a clever scheme. He knew that the pilot s.h.i.+p, returning to Pernambuco, was the only way by which Berlett could have escaped from the Southern Star.

Why had Berlett fled? Why had he not remained to keep his appointment with Carlos Mendoza? The Shadow knew the answer. It was the note from Mendoza-not the interview with the pretended investigator-that had made Berlett decide upon his course.

The Shadow had not witnessed Berlett's reading of the note; but he knew that the clever lawyer, shrewd in the past, crafty in the thought of the future, had decided that refuge in Pernambuco would be better for his plans than a further voyage aboard the Southern Star.

Edwin Berlett had departed. More than that, he had gained a reputation that might help him. Presumably, Berlett was dead. Where crime lay in the offing, a living dead man might hold a real advantage.

The Shadow had triumphed to-night, in pitched battle with vicious foemen. He had delivered necessary death to Warren Sigler, a murderer who deserved a violent end. But the swift battle aboard the Southern Star and the check-up of the pa.s.sengers afterward, had proven of aid to the schemes of some one other than The Shadow.

Edwin Berlett, safe in Pernambuco, had played his cards well. He had read between the lines of Carlos Mendoza's notes. He had played a crafty part during his interview with the pretended South American.

The Shadow, fighting for his own welfare and working in behalf of justice, had automatically performed another function when Warren Sigler had precipitated the struggle. The Shadow had abetted the cause of Edwin Berlett!

CHAPTER VII. NEW DEATH ARRIVES.

DEATH aboard the Steams.h.i.+p Southern Star. This news, flashed by radio, created an immense sensation. Within a few hours after the fight on the liner, New York newspapers were running scare-heads based upon the meager reports from the northward bound vessel.

First announcements were followed by new details. The reported death of Edwin Berlett was blared forth by the journals. Radiograms dispatched to the Southern Star brought back terse replies. The s.h.i.+p was heading into Barbados. More details would be dispatched when it arrived in port.

Like an avalanche increasing in size and fury, the story of the fight on the Southern Star was magnified.

To cap it came a new sensation. This was the burial, at sea, of a corpse that had been aboard the s.h.i.+p since Rio-the body of Torrence Dilgin.

The New York newspapers had not made much of Dilgin's death. The pa.s.sing of an old, retired oil magnate, living south for his health, had not been considered important enough for heavy s.p.a.ce in newspaper columns. But the reported death of Edwin Berlett had brought out the fact that the lawyer was bringing Dilgin's body back to New York. The captain of the Southern Star, like journalists in America, had taken an interest in the body that was stored aboard his s.h.i.+p.

Investigating, the captain had made the discovery that Torrence Dilgin's body had not been embalmed.

He had taken an ice-packed corpse aboard the s.h.i.+p. This was entirely contrary to orders. The captain had exerted his authority as dictator of law aboard a s.h.i.+p at sea.

Funeral rites had been read above the coffin of Torrence Dilgin. The casket, with the remains of the millionaire, had been consigned to the ocean. The captain, firm in the belief that the disposal of thiscorpse was essential to the welfare of the pa.s.sengers, had unwittingly disposed of the last evidence that could have pointed to Torrence Dilgin's murder.

But the burial itself was newspaper copy. The mystery of Dilgin's body; its hasty s.h.i.+pment from Rio; the fact that Edwin Berlett had been bringing it north without embalming-all were built into newspaper stories.

New York journals had their readers expectant. Each day was bringing new reports. Lester Dorrington, lawyer in charge of Torrence Dilgin's estate, was deluged by a flow of reporters. Testily, Dorrington refused interviews. He had no statement.

LATE one afternoon, a few days after the first reports had been received from the Southern Star, an old man was seated in a small, dilapidated office, scanning the early edition of an evening newspaper. The letterhead on a sheet of stationery that lay upon the man's desk announced his name and his profession: HUGO VERBECK.

ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

Verbeck's eyes were staring through the heavy lenses of rimmed spectacles. The old chap's hands were trembling with nervousness as they clutched the newspaper. Verbeck was devouring the gruesome details that concerned affairs aboard the Southern Star.

Some clever journalist had speculated upon Torrence Dilgin's death. Basing his column on the burial at sea, the writer had suggested that the millionaire's demise in Rio might be worthy of investigating. Reading this discussion, Verbeck rested his forefinger upon the name of Torrence Dilgin. He stared through his gla.s.ses at a photograph of the millionaire.

With a shake of his head, Verbeck laid the newspaper aside. He went to a safe in the corner of his old office. He opened the door, found a metal box and raised the lid. From the box he took the key to a safe deposit vault; also a folded paper of identification.

Verbeck left his office. He descended to the street and hailed a taxicab. He directed the driver to take him to the Paragon Trust Company. Arrived at the bank, Verbeck entered, showed his paper and was conducted to the safe deposit vaults.

The old lawyer used the key to unlock a box. He peered into s.p.a.ce and saw a metal container that half filled the safe deposit box. Drawing the container forth, the old lawyer undid its clasps. He raised the lid.

He stared in bewilderment.

The metal coffer was empty! Where Hugo Verbeck had definitely expected to find something of importance, he had discovered nothing.

A full minute pa.s.sed while Verbeck blinked in owlish fas.h.i.+on. Then, with slow, methodical movement, the old attorney replaced the coffer and closed the door of the safe deposit box.

Verbeck was muttering as he left the bank. His lips were still moving as he called a cab and rode back to his building. When he reached his office, the old lawyer's face was a study in worry and perplexity.

Pacing back and forth across his little room, Hugo Verbeck was in a quandary. He mumbled incoherent words. He mopped his brow. He stopped at the desk and picked up the newspaper. Dusk had settled; it was too dark to read in the gloomy office, so Verbeck turned on the light, by pressing a switch at the door. BLINKING in the light, Verbeck went back to the desk. He picked up the newspaper with apparent determination. He placed his forefinger upon another name mentioned on the front page. That was the name of Lester Dorrington.

Doubt registered itself on Verbeck's pinched features. Plainly, the old lawyer was perturbed about something that concerned Torrence Dilgin. From the reticence of his actions, it was apparent that he would have kept the matter to himself under ordinary circ.u.mstances.

Speculation on Dilgin's death and its aftermath had produced a different effect. Hugo Verbeck was beating down his own resistance. Whatever his secret- and plainly he had one-it was troubling him to the extreme.