The Shadow - Crime Rides The Sea Part 3

Harry and Cliff had finished their coffee. They awaited further words from The Shadow. He gave a quiet order of dismissal. As they went from the hotel room, both agents took a last glance from the doorway.

They saw the figure of Lamont Cranston motionless at the window. Keen eyes were staring out to sea; beneath them were lips that held a slight, but solemn, smile. It seemed that The Shadow's gaze was reaching off beyond the cleared horizon, ferreting for some hidden s.h.i.+p commanded by a lone wolf crook.

There, again on the broad Atlantic, The Shadow would at last find Pointer Trame.

CHAPTER VI.

OUT TO SEA.

Two days had gone; with them, the law had no luck in its search for the criminals who had wrecked the Ozark. The one trace of them had been the finding of the motorized lifeboat in the shoal waters of an inlet some thirty miles north of Atlantic City; but that discovery was fruitless.

The fugitives had abandoned their craft long before, and there wasn't a single clue that led to their trail. Probably the band had separated, and found their way back to New York. Preventing entry there was almost impossible, with so many ways of transportation available. Meanwhile, the law itself had investigated the wireless call received aboard the Ozark just prior to the freighter's loss. Many vessels had been questioned, upon reaching port; others had been met by coast guard cutters and subjected to a quiz. Not one knew anything about the mysterious message that had doomed the Ozark.

It was night in Atlantic City; with many hours gone, few remained until dawn. Brilliance had ended along the boardwalk, except for the lights of a few intermittent lamp-posts. The big advertising signs that topped the piers were dark, for no one was abroad to read them.

Viewed from below, the fronts of the large hotels were dark, too, denoting only sleeping guests in those choice rooms that faced the ocean. There was one hotel, however, in which a light still burned within a front room on the sixth floor. The glow was not visible outside, for drawn shades blocked it.

There, The Shadow was at work above a large chart that showed the New Jersey coast. He had marked spots out to sea with pins that bore heads of different colors. Each represented a different s.h.i.+p.

One, a green pin, stood for a yacht that bore the name Marmora.

That chart had changed often during the past two days, as different s.h.i.+ps had come to port or sailed farther out to sea. The Marmora, however, had always been in the offing; and that, to The Shadow, was significant.

His fingers resting on the green pin, The Shadow whispered a soft laugh in the darkness above the light that glowed upon the chart.

Of all vessels near the Jersey coast, the Marmora was least open to suspicion. Coast guards had given her a clean slate, and with good reason. She was owned by Jerome Trebble, a multi-millionaire who spent his life at sea.

The only time that the Marmora touched at a port was when she needed supplies; and that, sometimes, did not occur more often than once in two months.

As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had once met Jerome Trebble. Very few people had been granted the same privilege. Despite his wealth, Trebble was a recluse who hated the world, and had sworn that when he died, he would still be at sea.

Had he been penniless, he would probably have chosen a hermit's cave on the side of some isolated mountain; but, being overburdened with wealth, he had preferred a yacht. He spent many thousands annually upon the upkeep of the Marmora, but that scarcely dented his tremendous income.

Since Trebble couldn't navigate his palatial yacht alone, he had a crew aboard; also, a small retinue of chosen servants. Perhaps it was such human contact that kept him from becoming a complete recluse.

Once in a while, Trebble became sociable enough to invite visitors on the Marmora, provided that he thought they were interesting persons. It was through one of those rare invitations, extended to Lamont Cranston, that The Shadow had managed to meet him, for a single evening, when the yacht was moored in Long Island Sound.

Right now, The Shadow was wondering who else might have met Jerome Trebble. He was drawing a line along another chart, that showed the entire seaboard, tracing back the course of the Marmora for the past ten months.

New Orleans, Halifax, Savannah, Bermuda - The Shadow's line swung southward again and stopped. His laugh was repeated in the gloom. The spot that he marked, the port where the Marmora had visited nearly eight months ago, was Havana.

Checking on a list beside the chart, The Shadow found that the yacht'sdeparture from the Cuban capital had occurred at about the time when Pointer Trame had last been seen there.

REVERTING to the colored pins, The Shadow made a careful study of other vessels indicated, for a special reason of his own. He tapped a red pin that stood for the Monarch of Bermuda, but decided that her course wouldn't suit him. He wanted to find a s.h.i.+p that would be pa.s.sing the Marmora at a specific hour; and the second one he picked was near enough to serve his needs. She was the New York-Savannah liner City of Birmingham, approaching New York from the South.

By The Shadow's calculation, the City of Birmingham would sight the Marmora two hours after dawn, some fifty miles off sh.o.r.e, east of Norfolk, Virginia.

Reaching for the telephone, The Shadow jiggled the hook, finally disturbing the hotel operator. A sleepy voice seemed to wonder who would be calling at this hour. In Cranston's tone, The Shadow gave the number of the Atlantic City airport.

That call was answered promptly. No surprise was evidenced when Lamont Cranston stated that he wanted to hire a plane, to begin a flight at dawn.

Many wealthy visitors to Atlantic City had pilot's licenses; and early morning was the finest time to view the ocean from the air. The Shadow was a.s.sured that the s.h.i.+p would be ready when he arrived.

It was. When The Shadow's taxi reached the airport, a light biplane with an open c.o.c.kpit was standing outside the hangar. After identifying himself as Cranston, The Shadow tossed a small bag aboard and climbed into the plane. The propeller whirled; the plane made its take-off, its wings glinting as they caught the rays of the rising sun.

The plane was fast enough, although she wasn't new. Another summer of heavy use, and she would be just another crate, ready for the junk heap. Not the sort of s.h.i.+p that The Shadow would have ordinarily preferred; but for this occasion, a knockabout craft was exactly right. When The Shadow did what he intended to do, no one who witnessed the deed would be surprised.

Whisking southward, the plane pa.s.sed over the many resorts south of Atlantic City. The last was Cape May; there, the Jersey coast dwindled as the plane struck out to sea. Those chaps back at the airport hadn't supposed that Cranston was intending such a long trip. For an ocean flight, they would have recommended a seaplane.

But that didn't disturb The Shadow. Looking back from the c.o.c.kpit, he saw the coast line fade to obscurity. A curious laugh issued from his lips.

A patch of yellow against the clear blue sky, the plane looked like a stray bird that had lost its way. The sea breeze was heavy, the going b.u.mpy; and below, the sea showed choppiness. Whitecaps were waving, as though warning the plane back to land. Instead, The Shadow persisted in his ocean course, following nearly directly south Two hours were nearly gone. Miles out above the open sea, The Shadow spied smoke along the horizon. He strained his gaze, hoping for a second token. At last he saw it, a fainter wisp than the first. Coming closer, he calculated a s.p.a.ce of about three miles between the two smoky pillars.

He saw the City of Birmingham, bulking up below her own smoke; which issued steadily from her funnel. He could make out the boats along her superstructure; on the deck, he saw moving dots that he knew were people.

Heading straight for the coastal liner, The Shadow gave another glance, obliquely to the right.

That view showed him the yacht Marmora, smaller than the New York-Savannah liner, but more graceful. She was a delicate thing of white, taking easy,graceful dips through the choppy sea over which the larger vessel plowed. Not only could both s.h.i.+ps see the yellow plane; they were within each other's sight.

THE SHADOW maneuvered the plane's controls. He was banking, apparently beginning a half circle that would head him back to land, when the plane's motor sputtered. From then on, every action of the yellow plane indicated that it was in distress.

Under the pilot's deliberate mishandling, the motor choked worse than before. Leaning from the c.o.c.kpit, The Shadow gesticulated wildly toward the liner that was just below him, to the left.

He made a well-faked effort to keep the plane in the air, as his quarter turn took him away from the City of Birmingham. He was heading directly for the Marmora, covering those few miles in jerky, precarious fas.h.i.+on, only a few hundred feet above the ocean.

Then, with a last spasm, the motor died. The fragile plane started a dive toward the sea.

Leveling off before he struck, The Shadow piloted the plane across a wave top. The jounce nearly threw him from the c.o.c.kpit. He hit another wave, that gripped a ruined wing, half plucking it from the plane's fuselage.

Nose dipped deep, the yellow plane was a helpless wreck upon the foam, its lone occupant climbing from the c.o.c.kpit to along the higher wing, while he waved excitedly toward the yacht, no more than a hundred yards away.

Men were peering from the yacht's rail, undecided what to do. The Shadow could see their faces; he felt sure that those aboard the Marmora would gladly have kept the yacht along its course, leaving the foolhardy aviator to his fate. But they couldn't overlook the fact that the City of Birmingham was on the scene.

Her engines had stopped; the smoke from her funnel was thinning. Her whistle sent inquiring blasts that the Marmora was forced to answer.

The yacht dropped a tender with men aboard it. Clearing deftly, the small boat headed for the waterlogged plane. The little gig was motored; it cut the water like a driving arrow. Watching its approach, The Shadow saw signals going up from the Marmora. The yacht was doing the full duty that the law of the sea required.

Stooping to the c.o.c.kpit, The Shadow brought out his bag and carried it with him when he was lifted into the tender. The motor roared again, sweeping them away from the wreckage of the plane. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston stood aboard the Marmora, smiling very weakly as he thanked his rescuers.

The City of Birmingham had resumed her northward route; when she reached New York, she would report the rescue that she had witnessed. By that time, if the skipper of the Marmora proved as wise as The Shadow believed him to be, the news would already be radioed from the yacht.

Though his presence was distinctly unwelcome, Lamont Cranston would certainly be accorded excellent treatment aboard the Marmora, under the circ.u.mstances which had brought him here.

The Shadow had found the one way to reach the Trebble yacht without an invitation, and he intended to ferret out new facts while he remained as an unwanted pa.s.senger.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FINGER MOVES THEY were inquisitive aboard the Marmora. They wanted to know who The Shadow was, and what he was doing in a land plane off the Virginia Capes. They put those questions bluntly, and The Shadow answered them.

His name, he said, was Lamont Cranston, and he liked adventure. When he flew a plane, he recognized but one limitation: the capacity of the gasoline tank. There had been times, in fact, when even that had not deterred him, so long as he knew that a landing spot would be handy when he ran out of fuel.

This hadn't been one of those occasions. His intent had been to return to his starting point, the Atlantic City airport, after meeting the City of Birmingham. He had friends aboard that s.h.i.+p, and he had promised to fly out and greet them. His one mistake had been that of hiring the wrong plane.

The talk impressed the listeners, particularly the reference to the imaginary friends on the New York-Savannah liner. One of the yacht's officers promised to send an immediate radio dispatch, informing the world - with the City of Birmingham included - that Lamont Cranston was safe aboard the Marmora.

Listeners didn't know that Lamont Cranston was learning more than they were.

The Shadow recognized the Marmora, from his visit of a few years back, but he didn't remember a solitary face that he had seen before. Possibly, some of the former crew members were below, but this crowd weren't of the caliber that Jerome Trebble usually hired. Something was distinctly wrong aboard the Marmora.

No expression on Cranston's masklike face betrayed suspicion. The dapper officer who had done the questioning became more courteous. He was glad, he said, that they had been able to help Mr. Cranston. They had a cabin that he could use, but they could not promise how soon he would be taken ash.o.r.e. This yacht, the man declared truthfully, didn't put into port often.

Before going to his cabin, The Shadow picked up his bag. That was when the first gleam of doubt showed in the dapper officer's eyes. It left, when he saw Cranston open the bag, to put away his aviator's helmet. The bag contained nothing but a lunch box, that fell open to show some wrapped sandwiches.

The striped interior of the bag made its depth deceptive. The sharpest eye could not have detected that the hag had a false bottom.

A few minutes after he had closed the cabin door, The Shadow heard a rap.

He answered it; the dapper officer was back again. Twisting the tiny points of his short-clipped mustache, the fellow asked: "Do you know whose yacht this is?"

The Shadow shook his head.

"It belongs to Jerome Trebble," said the officer. "You've heard of him, haven't you, Mr. Cranston?"

"I certainly have!" For the first time, Cranston's face displayed signs of interest. Then, with a slight smile: "This is a real adventure, striking upon Trebble's s.h.i.+p."

"You've never met Mr. Trebble?"

The Shadow met that question with a negative headshake. It was the direct opposite of the truth; but it served a valuable purpose, one that brought a different smile to the lips of Cranston, when the officer had left. The Shadow was confident that his answer would produce prompt results.

Jerome Trebble, it happened, did know Lamont Cranston. No matter how exclusive Trebble might feel on this particular morning, he would certainly be anxious to see any man who claimed to be Cranston, but who denied ever having been aboard the Marmora. Jerome Trebble had a definite dislike for impostors, and was always pleased at a chance to expose them. Hence, The Shadow had taken the most direct method to meet Trebble, if such proved possible.

He had doubts, though, that Jerome Trebble was still aboard the Marmora.

Therefore, The Shadow's claim that he did not know Trebble was doubly valuable.

It made it easier for him to meet the yacht's new owner, should there be one.

STROLLING out to the deck, The Shadow met the dapper officer when he returned with the announcement: "Mr. Trebble would like to see you. Come this way, Mr. Cranston."

They went below and reached a door that The Shadow remembered. A knock brought word to enter. The Shadow stepped into a sumptuous cabin, that was half living room, half bedroom. His gaze went directly to a corner, where a man was seated at a desk.

That corner had always been Trebble's favorite spot. The Shadow could remember Trebble sitting there, half hunched, with one elbow propped to hold his long chin, while his eyes stared through round-rimmed spectacles that were wider than his thin-cheeked face.

The man at the desk today had Trebble's manner, even to the propped elbow.

His chin, too, was long like his face; but his cheeks weren't thin. They made the spectacles look small, and through the lenses, The Shadow could see eyes that did not belong to Jerome Trebble.

The owner of the Marmora had a blinking habit that gave him an owlish expression. This man's eyes were sharp; when their lids narrowed, it was not to avoid a hurting light. It was a different habit: a manifestation of shrewdness.

He didn't need the big spectacles that he wore.

He was Pointer Trame.

Those shrewd eyes caught no recognition from The Shadow's expression.

After a close scrutiny of the uninvited guest, Trame decided that he was just what he claimed to be - a wrecked aviator, rescued from the brine.

In a wheedling voice, an excellent imitation of Trebble's style, Trame suggested: "Have a chair, Mr. Cranston."

Soon, The Shadow and Pointer Trame were clouding the air with puffs from fat cigars. In their respective parts of Lamont Cranston and Jerome Trebble, crime hunter and crook were forming an excellent acquaintance.

Not once did The Shadow make the slightest sign that could have alarmed Trame. In turn, Trame showed no suspicion of his new guest, Lamont Cranston.

At moments, it struck The Shadow that his own pretense might be working too effectively. Perhaps it was an indication that Trame's bluff also covered secret inklings regarding The Shadow's true ident.i.ty.

Subtly, in that cajoling tone that he faked so well, Trame was suggesting reasons why Cranston should stay aboard the Marmora for a while. His excuse was that he seldom put into port; at present, he was hoping to extend this cruise into a fis.h.i.+ng trip, which might be spoiled if he left these waters.

It would have been a logical-enough pretext, had it come from Jerome Trebble, the millionaire who always wanted his own way; but from the lips of Pointer Trame, the excuse was flimsy. Nevertheless, Trame received the reply that Cranston was in no hurry to go ash.o.r.e; that he would be glad to continue on the cruise.

That pleased Trame. However shallow his suspicions might be, he wanted to know more about Lamont Cranston. In turn, The Shadow desired further facts regarding Pointer Trame. The conversation ended when someone rapped heavily at the cabin door.

Trame recognized the knock, and called: "You may enter, Raydorf!"

Then, while the door was opening, Trame informed The Shadow: "Raydorf is my secretary, and a very competent man."

FROM Raydorf's look, when The Shadow saw him, the man appeared very competent, but not as a secretary. The fellow looked to be more capable in such pursuits as murder or mayhem. Seldom had The Shadow seen an uglier pair of eyes, or lips that carried such suggestion of latent cruelty.

There was a gloss to Raydorf's darkish countenance that somewhat covered his villainous expression. When he adjusted a pair of spectacles to his high-bridged nose, he gained a bit of superficial dignity. His voice, too, added some suavity to his manner, for it was a velvety purr.

To others, Raydorf's shammed smugness might have been deceptive; but as The Shadow watched him, the fellow seemed to ooze viciousness from every pore.

Thinking that his oily manner was as good a bluff as Trame's wheedle, Raydorf politely inquired how long Mr. Cranston would be aboard the Marmora.

With definite satisfaction, Trame replied that the guest's stay would be a long one. He turned to The Shadow, remarking that if he cared to send any radiogram to New York, it could be easily arranged.

"Just call your steward," said Trame. "His name is Hartley. Wait" - Trame reached for a buzzer - "I'll send for him and introduce you."