The Shadow's Justice s-28

by Maxwell Grant

  “Carter Boswick. That’s his name. Coming north on the steamship Southern Star. It’s due in New York on the twentieth, and it comes by way of Havana, with a lay-over. You’re coming in on that boat”—Hub Rowley’s voice became low and deliberate—“and Carter Boswick is not. Do you get me now?”

  “Sure thing,” nodded Stacks slowly. “But you know my limit, Hub. I’m all right at the card table.”

  “But not with the rod, eh?”

  “I’m O. K. there, too,” asserted Stacks, now hasty in his tone, “but I may not be one hundred per cent—and, besides, on board a boat—”

  Hub Rowley was leaning forward in his chair, eyes agleam.

  “You heard what I told you, Stacks,” he insisted. “Find yourselves some friends. Invite them aboard. Play your own part—the lone gambler. Even if you get watched, it will be all the better. It leaves you out of what may happen.”

  “You mean the others—”

  “Certainly. But I want you there to make sure. You can handle Scully and other gorillas like him, can’t you? Well—this is the same thing in a different way.”

  “Sure enough, Hub,” agreed Stacks, in a relieved tone. “Say—this won’t be hard at all. I’ll need dough—”

  “I’m giving you twenty grand—”

  “And I’ll have to hustle for Havana so—”

  “By air, to-morrow morning. Pick your gorillas down there. The town us full of them. They’re getting ideas from Chicago, those people. Bumped off a big political friend of the president with machine guns.”

  “Leave it to me, Hub.”

  The big shot smiled, broadly this time. The smirk showed his glittering gold teeth. Hub pulled a thick wallet from his pocket and counted off a mass of bills which he handed to Stacks Lodi.

  The former card shark knew that the interview was ended. He rose, donned his hat and coat; then departed toward the anteroom, followed by Hub Rowley’s shrewd gaze.

  MINUTES drifted by. The big shot finished his drink and arose from his chair. He walked across the room to a door opposite the hanging curtains. He went into a next room; then called loudly for Twister Edmonds.

  The bodyguard appeared from the outside room and came to join his chief.

  The way to the outer door was clear. The blackness below the hanging curtains seemed to move. As if by wizardry, it transformed itself into an upright shape—the tall figure of a weird being clad in black.

  As silently as he had entered, The Shadow made his departure, crossing the reception room, and entering the outer chamber that gave him access to the outside door. Stacks Lodi had gone; again, The Shadow had followed.

  The aftermath to this strange scene occurred an hour later at an agency where air travelers made their reservations. The man who was going off duty made a chance comment to the one who relieved him.

  “Funny how they come in at the last minute sometimes,” he observed. “Take that Havana plane, for instance. Here we figured she would run light on this trip. Now, within a half hour of each other, two men book transportation.”

  The new man looked at the list. He saw the names inscribed there. One was Antonio Lodi; the other was Lamont Cranston. Those names meant nothing to the agent. He shrugged his shoulders and went about his duty.

  Yet those names actually held a peculiar significance. The first was the genuine name of a man of crime; the second, the assumed identity of one who warred against the denizens of crookdom, from small to large.

  Stacks Lodi was Havana hound; to-morrow, his plane was sailing. Aboard the same ship—unknown and unrecognized by Hub Rowley’s agent—would he the one personage whom all the underworld feared.

  The Shadow, like Stacks Lodi, was traveling to Havana!

  CHAPTER IV.

  IN HAVANA.

  STACKS LODI, versatile minion of Hub Rowley, was a man of chameleon qualities. His ability to change his physical appearance was remarkable, despite its limitations; but his great aptitude was the facility with which he fitted himself into any environment.

  During the period that he had gained a profitable living through his gambling activities aboard transatlantic liners, Stacks had frequently resorted to methods of semidisguise which had served him well until all of his various artifices had become known.

  After that, he had settled down to the routine existence of a faro dealer in gambling joints secretly controlled by Hub Rowley. The big shot had finally promoted Stacks to the role of lieutenant in charge of mobsmen. Stacks had served as such when he had been conducting activities at the home of Houston Boswick.

  Now, as ambassador of hidden crime, Stacks had been dispatched on a new mission which had begun with the airplane flight from New York to Havana. At the time of his departure, Stacks had boasted a short, flat mustache across his upper lip. From the hour that he had left Hub’s apartment, Stacks had paid particular attention to that adornment.

  Perhaps the effect of tropical climate had helped the quick growth of hair upon the gambler’s upper lip. Perhaps the judicious use of dark dye and wax were chiefly responsible; whatever the case might have been, Stacks Lodi, by the time he had been three days in Havana, was possessed of a conspicuous mustache with pointed ends.

  Now, as he stood within the portals of the magnificent Gran Casino Nacional, Stacks had the appearance of a suave, sophisticated habitue of palatial gambling halls.

  His keen, intuitive eye was watching the brilliant throng which crowded about the whirling roulette wheels. There, Stacks was observing people, not the game; although any who noticed him would have fancied that he was most interested in the way the croupiers deftly raked in the stacks of coins that lay upon the gaming tables.

  Stacks Lodi had spent most of his time in the casino. He had come there because the place was the natural gathering point of all adventurous persons who visited Havana.

  With the cool, practiced eye of the professional gambler, Stacks had been looking for men whose faces were no more than masks that hid the cunning brains of criminals. He had not only discovered three such individuals; he had made the acquaintance of the trio.

  Those three were in the Gran Casino Nacional tonight. But they were not under Stacks Lodi’s surveillance for the present. The shrewd, mustached observer had found a new interest.

  He was watching a small group of Americans who were enjoying their roulette. These were passengers who had come ashore from the steamship Southern Star, which had docked in Havana that afternoon.

  Bound from Montevideo to New York, the Southern Star, delayed by a heavy equatorial storm, was slated to remain in Havana for only twenty-four hours. The ship would sail to-morrow afternoon. Between now and then, Stacks Lodi planned nefarious action.

  ONE man among the Americans from the Southern Star was the individual whom Stacks Lodi sought. This man, tall, vigorous, and youthful, possessed the qualities of a powerful athlete.

  His face was well molded, and showed a carefree disposition, backed by self-control. His dark-blue eyes and light-brown hair rendered him conspicuous among his companions. Stacks had heard the young man’s name spoken by two of those who were with him. He knew that this was Carter Boswick.

  “Hey, Carter”—one of the crowd was addressing the young man now—“we’re going to skid out of here. We’re running down to Sloppy Joe’s bar. Coming along?”

  Carter Boswick smiled and shook his head as he placed a stack of money upon the roulette table.

  “I’ll be here a while,” he remarked. “I’m staking three hundred and fifty dollars just to see how I make out. It’s half gone now; if I get it back or lose it, I quit. I’ll see you fellow’s on the boat.”

  Three minutes later, Carter Boswick was deserted by his friends.

  Completely engaged by the play at the roulette table, the young man was due to remain there for some time at least. This was the very opportunity that Stacks had awaited.

  Strolling through the room, the gambler stopped three times. On each occasion, he dropped a chance remark in the ear of
a different man. Then, continuing his stroll, Stacks reached the outside garden, and followed the promenade that circled about the beautiful pond, with its central fountain of dancing bacchantes.

  Here, at an appointed spot, Stacks found three men awaiting him. All were garbed in evening clothes—the same attire which Stacks Lodi wore.

  Although they had no more than a speaking acquaintance with each other, these men possessed much in common. They were adventurers all, and Stacks Lodi had made no hazardous guess when he had judged them as men to whom crime was not foreign.

  “Buenos noches,” purred Stacks Lodi, speaking in smooth Spanish. “I have something to engage your attention, senores. It will bring money more swiftly than a good turn of the roulette wheel.”

  Sparkling eyes and crafty glances assured Stacks that his listeners were interested.

  “To-morrow,” resumed the gambler, “the steamship Southern Star sails for New York. I shall be aboard that vessel. I am quite willing to engage first-class passage for three gentlemen such as yourselves. It will be a delightful trip—”

  Stacks paused to light a cigarette. His cunning face showed above the flame of the match. The listening men detected the knowing smile that curled the lips below the black, pointed moustache.

  “There will be another person aboard,” continued Stacks, as though changing the subject. “Senor Carter Boswick is his name. An Americano booked through from Montevideo.

  “I do not care to make his acquaintance, senores, but I have no objection to my friends doing so. Much comes from chance acquaintance. I do not object to seeing Senor Boswick go aboard the Southern Star to-morrow afternoon but I would feel a keen regret should I see him leaving the same boat at New York.”

  The innuendo was plain. The hearers knew it. They exchanged cunning glances. Then one spoke in a low tone.

  “What is your offer, Senor?”

  STACKS was thoughtful. His eyes suddenly wandered as he fancied that he saw a slight motion beside a hibiscus bush a dozen feet away. A second glance reassured him. He was positive that no one could be in the vicinity.

  A long stretch of black shadow extended from the bush, and reached across the promenade to Stacks Lodi’s feet. But the gambler thought nothing of that phenomenon. Other bushes in the luxuriant garden cast shadows also.

  “Two thousand dollars to each of my friends,” remarked Stacks quietly. “Two thousand dollars payable immediately after—”

  The questioner nodded. Another man uttered a short ejaculation beneath his breath:

  “Two thousand dollars! Four thousand pesos!”

  This expression of the sum in terms of South American currency was gratifying to Stacks Lodi. He was sure that his offer would he accepted. The conjecture proved correct.

  “I am ready, senor,” announced one of the trio.

  The others followed the acceptance.

  Stacks Lodi smiled. He knew now that these men were polished assassins— a fact that he had already discerned. Only the arrangements for passage remained. Stacks was about to explain this detail when one of his hirelings put forth a question.

  “This man we are to meet,” suggested the would-be assassin. “Senor Carter Boswick—we shall see him aboard the Southern Star?”

  “You may see him now,” responded Stacks.

  “Where is he?” came the question.

  “In the casino,” answered Stacks. “At the roulette table.”’

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  The man laughed in an even tone as he heard Stacks Lodi’s reply. With a twisting smile upon his dark lips, he asked another question.

  “Would it disappoint you, senor.” he quizzed, “to have this senor Boswick stay always in Havana? Would you regret it if tonight—”

  The man’s eyes were flashing with a murderous intention. Stacks Lodi smiled. The others buzzed their approval. Stacks shrugged his shoulders.

  “Would you be kind enough,” continued the man who made the suggestion, “to point out to us this Senor Boswick? There are opportunities in this city of Havana. Perhaps we shall make use of one.

  “Whether we succeed or fail, we shall board the Southern Star. Success will mean that New York would be preferable to Havana, despite the climate; failure would mean the necessity of a new opportunity aboard the steamship.”

  “Come,” said Stacks.

  He led his new hirelings along the promenade, past the hibiscus bush where the long stretch of blackness still manifested itself.

  The brightly lighted door of the casino attracted the attention of the four walkers. None glanced back. They did not see the motion in the blackness beside the hibiscus. Nor did they see the strange, phantom-like shape that emerged from that patch of dark.

  A being of the night was following the quartet along the paved promenade. The Shadow, strange shape of mystery, had overheard the negotiations. He, too, was interested in Stacks Lodi’s plans.

  At the door of the gambling room, Stacks Lodi, with a low tone and an almost imperceptible motion of his hand, signaled out Carter Boswick. The young American now sported a large stack of winnings. He was preparing to leave the gambling hall.

  The three minions of Stacks Lodi took their separate courses. They spread out, each with no apparent purpose. Stacks Lodi, idling by the door, was watching them.

  He knew that when Carter Boswick left, these three would follow. Stacks had given them final instructions: they were to call for their steamship tickets at the Hotel Seville.

  Stacks had not introduced the men to each other; but he knew their individual names. None of them were Cubans; all were South Americans.

  Stacks made a final note of them:

  Cassalta—he was the one with the traces of pockmarks on his face. Bolano— that man had busy eyebrows and protruding jaw. Herrando—he had been the spokesman with the murderous grin.

  Now, as Stacks Lodi calmly watched them, these men appeared to be persons of leisure, their veneer of gentlemanly deportment completely covering their actual evilness.

  STACKS became suddenly conscious that another man was standing beside him. He turned to see a tall individual with calm, cold-chiseled face and hawk-like nose.

  He recognized Lamont Cranston—an American who had come down to Havana on the same plane with him.

  Stacks smiled. He was sure that Cranston would not recognize Stacks Lodi.

  The tall American was just beginning a chance conversation with a Cuban friend at the moment Stacks happened to turn. The gambler overheard them.

  “You say that a boat sails for New York to-morrow?” Cranston was asking. “That surprises me. I did not see it on the sailing schedules.”

  “It is a ship from Montevideo, senor,” the Cuban replied. “The Southern Star, of the Panorama Line. If you wish to return to New York by sea, you can probably engage passage aboard that boat.”

  “Excellent,” decided Cranston. “I believe I shall do that. Thank you, senor, for the suggestion.”

  Stacks Lodi gave no further consideration to the talk that he had overheard. He threw a final glance toward Lamont Cranston and turned away.

  Had Stacks allowed his gaze to drop to the floor, he might have gained a momentary surprise. For the length of Lamont Cranston’s shadow was very strangely like that splotch of darkness. that had extended from the hibiscus bush in the garden.

  That silhouette, alone, was the feature that marked Lamont Cranston as the hidden observer who had overheard the conversation between Stacks Lodi and the three South Americans. This man who called himself Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.

  Keenly watching the roulette table where Carter Boswick had been playing, Stacks Lodi did not realize that he, himself, was under observation. All during his sojourns in the Gran Casino Nacional he had been under the surveillance of the eyes that were now watching him—the eyes of The Shadow!

  Carter Boswick was leaving. His stakes had been changed to United States paper currency, and he was pleased because he had regaine
d his original sum. He passed within two yards of Stacks Lodi, but did not even glance in the direction of the shrewd-faced gambler.

  Stacks watched the trio of intended assassins follow. Cassalta, Bolano, and Herrando—these were the stalwarts who would work for him tonight. They disappeared in the same direction that Carter Boswick had taken. A triumphant smile curled upon the gambler’s lips.

  Stacks Lodi did not notice that Lamont Cranston, too, had left the gambling hall. In fact, he had forgotten all about the man. Hence Stacks had no reason to suspect that trouble was brewing for his minions.

  He did not know that the evil trio who were trailing Carter Boswick were themselves being followed. Outside the Gran Casino Nacional, a strange, uncanny figure had materialized the moment that the three had passed.

  In a spot of seclusion, the tall figure of Lamont Cranston had stepped unobserved. Now, when it emerged, it was the man no longer. The Shadow, master of darkness, was the being who had taken up the trail of Stacks Lodi’s hired killers!

  CHAPTER V.

  THE SHADOW’S MIGHT.

  HAD Carter Boswick been of a less adventurous temperament, he might have completely avoided danger on that evening in Havana.

  His first impulse, upon leaving the Gran Casino Nacional was to return to the Southern Star. But as he hailed a waiting taxi, it suddenly occurred to him that this evening was yet young. He had no desire to join the other Americans in such a tourists’ resort as Sloppy Joe’s; but he did have a yearning to see the night life of old Havana.

  Speaking in fluent Spanish, Carter quizzed the cab driver before entering the vehicle. The Cuban grinned and nodded.

  The Americano would like to visit a place where tourists seldom went? Very well; he would be taken there. He would visit the old Barcelona Club—at one time the most exclusive private gambling place in Havana—now a spot where revolutionary plots were hatched.