IN Carter Boswick’s mind, last night’s events were a muddle. He knew nothing of what had caused the trouble at the Barcelona Club. He remembered very little concerning any of his assailants.
He thought the whole affair had been a matter of mistaken identity. Furthermore, he was elated by a letter that he had received on shipboard just before sailing.
He produced the letter now. It was from his father in New York, and it filled Carter Boswick with gladness, despite a tinge of apprehension that it had also created.
He looked at the message.
Your return will be a welcome one, my son. I am overjoyed because you have been successful in foreign lands. I am nearing the end of life; whatever I have will be yours, save for a pension to your cousin, Drew Westling.
Life is uncertain; although your return will be soon, I may not be here to welcome you. But I have confidence in you, and whatever test may arise, I know that you will meet it.
Should I not be here, Carter, my lawyer, Farland Tracy will tell you of my wishes. From him you will learn much—but there will be more to learn, even though I may be dead. Be discreet, my son, beware of hidden danger and meet all hazards that may confront you.
The odd phraseology of the letter was startling to Carter Boswick. He read the message over and over; still, he wondered at its hidden meaning. He thrust the letter in his pocket, lighted a cigar, and lapsed into a reverie of the past.
Stacks Lodi, seated at the card table, was watching Carter Boswick from the corner of his eye.
There was another for whom Lodi was watching—Lamont Cranston. He did not know why; he simply wondered if Cranston were about. He had learned that the man had booked passage on this ship. Not seeing Cranston, Lodi decided that the man must be in his stateroom. Many of the passengers had kept to their cabins tonight.
Carter Boswick was finishing his cigar. Stacks Lodi sensed that he would soon leave the smoking room. The gambler was pleased when a timely lull occurred in the game. He got up from the table and walked to the bar. On the way, he flashed a quick signal to Herrando.
The South American arose and left the smoking room. But he did not stop when he reached the outside deck. He moved swiftly, despite the roll of the ship, and gained a near-by cabin. It was not the one that belonged to Herrando. It was the cabin engaged by Lamont Cranston.
A few moments later, a figure emerged from the cabin door. Tall, black, and spectral, it loomed like a ghost from the brine that swept the deck. Herrando, the man who had so strangely come back to life, was no longer Herrando. He was The Shadow!
Had Stacks Lodi been there, he might have understood. Lamont Cranston had come aboard, and had left the ship later. Then Herrando had come on board in his place. So far as any one knew, both men were on the Southern Star; in reality, both men were one!
Within the smoking room, Stacks Lodi saw Carter Boswick arise and start for the door that made the shortest way to his cabin. Stacks was pleased to note that no one else seemed to observe Carter’s departure.
From the bar, Stacks caught the eye of Cassalta, and made a slight sign. Then he spotted Bolano, and repeated the action. The two men, surreptitiously, followed the path that Carter Boswick had taken.
Stacks Lodi, his fingers gripping a revolver in his pocket, grimly resolved to follow also. He wanted to be sure that his assassins did not fail tonight,
CARTER Boswick, when he reached the deserted deck, did not go directly to his cabin. Instead, he stopped beside the rail and watched the surging sea that swirled and battered at the side of the plunging ship. In this action, he once again played into the hands of enemies.
The door opened behind him. Carter did not hear it. An instant later, Cassalta and Bolano, recognizing their intended victim, leaped forward with no thought of where Herrando might be. They caught Carter Boswick unaware.
The young man felt his body lifted upward by the rail—in another second, he would have seen hurled out into the ocean, but for the intervention which occurred.
A mass of darkness swept upward from a spot beside the rail. A living creature conjured from nothingness, The Shadow flung himself into the fray. He sent both Cassalta and Bolano spinning. Carter Boswick plunged safely to the deck, and lay there, half stunned.
The South Americans, sprawling, did not know what had struck them, until they glanced up, terrorized, to see the strange being who had balked them in the fight of the night before.
These men were at The Shadow’s mercy; but it was now their turn to gain by intervention. Stacks Lodi, stepping from the door with gun in hand, saw The Shadow. The gambler, versed in the lore of New York’s underworld, recognized this terrible foe. He raised his revolver to fire.
But The Shadow, turning, saw the menace. The black-gloved hands shot forward. They caught Stacks Lodi with incredible swiftness. The gun went spinning across the deck. Stacks and The Shadow were locked in a furious tussle.
Cassalta and Bolano sprang to their feet, and rushed to aid their chief. As they arrived, Stacks shot head foremost along the slippery deck, skidding up against the rail.
The two South Americans hit The Shadow at once, from behind. The black-gloved hands caught Cassalta’s wrists. The Shadow’s body seemed to crumple to the deck; then snapped upward like a whipcord.
The mighty effort succeeded with amazing results. The Shadow had taken no direction in his aim. His purpose was merely to fling Cassalta away. But the twist of his body headed the assassin directly toward the rail.
As the ship rolled, Cassalta went spinning through the air like a huge missile flung from a catapult. Timed with the sidewise descent of the ship, The Shadow’s terrific heave sent the assassin a dozen feet through the air, clear over the rail by a space of a full yard, and on out into the raging sea!
Bolano had no inkling of his comrade’s fate. He and The Shadow were rolling across the deck. Bolano’s hand fell upon Stacks Lodi’s gun. With a savage cry, the second killer gripped the weapon and sought to press the trigger.
His effort was successful, but not with the result that he expected. The hand of The Shadow caught his wrist as he was about to fire. A twist occurred just as Bolano discharged the gun. Bolano groaned and crumpled away, the bullet in his own body. His fingers lost their grip, and the revolver bounced upon the deck.
Stacks Lodi, disarmed, had seen the amazing fight. He heard the shot, and saw The Shadow rolling free. With a gasp of terror, he ran along the deck, turned into a door that led to a corridor, and made his way back to the smoking room.
THE SHADOW arose. He saw the form of Bolano, dying on the deck. He reached the spot where Carter Boswick lay, and helped the groggy young man to his feet. When Carter Boswick fully regained his senses, he found himself lying on the berth in his own stateroom.
The aftermath of the strange fray began later that night, when a steward discovered the body of Bolano with the gun beside it. Stacks Lodi was still gambling in the smoking room when the news broke.
An investigation followed. It was learned that two men were missing— both South Americans—Cassalta and Herrando. Nothing else could be ascertained; but it was decided that all three—Bolano as well as the missing men— were of questionable character.
The report was that a quarrel must have occurred; that two had united to throw the third overboard. Then the two had battled: Bolano, shot by his antagonist, had managed to hurl him into the sea.
Carter Boswick wisely kept his peace. There was much that he did not understand about the attack which had been made upon him. He knew only that a mysterious stranger had once again appeared to beat off his antagonists.
It was Stacks Lodi who maintained a trembling silence. He, too, was perplexed. He wondered what had happened to Herrando. He believed that The Shadow must have dispatched that villain before he attended to the others. He never dreamed that The Shadow had assumed the guise of Herrando!
Stacks Lodi did not see Lamont Cranston on board the ship. The reason was that Stacks Lodi seldom left his stateroom. He
lay in hiding, hoping only that his share in the strange events had not been known by the dread avenger.
For Stacks Lodi had recognized The Shadow. He had terrible news to bear to Hub Rowley. There would be a new menace to confront the big shot’s schemes.
The Shadow, master mind opposed to crime, had shown his hand. Now, hidden and mysterious, he was permitting Stacks Lodi to carry back the word. Contemptuous of the criminals whom he opposed, he had spared this skulking underling.
The Southern Star plowed on through lessening seas. Each day was indicative of approaching calmness on the ocean. But when the steamship landed, there would be no quietude ashore. Then forces of evil would be met by the hand of The Shadow!
During this strange lull, Carter Boswick, entirely unconscious of the cause, still wondered why he had been attacked by unknown enemies. Little did he know of the turmoil in store for him.
He had been saved by The Shadow. Would that same hand strike again to rescue him when hidden danger came?
Only The Shadow could answer!
CHAPTER VII.
THE HOME-COMING.
WHEN the Southern Star docked at its North River pier, Carter Boswick was one of the first persons ashore. All the way up the river, the young man had imbibed the breeze of New York Harbor with a sense of new elation.
The sky line of Manhattan, replenished with huge buildings which had been erected during his absence, the familiarity of old views which Carter had not seen for years—these conspired to give the returning man an unexpected yearning for home.
Carter’s thoughts were of his father. All during the voyage from Havana be had read and reread the letter. His eagerness to greet his lone parent had reached the proportions of a mania. The details of customs examinations on the pier were an annoyance that Carter Boswick could scarcely undergo.
His luggage, each item labeled with a letter B, was subjected to an immediate examination, while Carter waited impatiently. Close beside him were passengers whose names began with C. One of those passengers—Lamont Cranston—was watching Boswick with careful gaze. Carter Boswick was not conscious of the surveillance.
While Carter Boswick waited, he felt a touch upon his shoulder. Turning, he faced a well-dressed man of medium height, whose features were firm and aristocratic. Carter had never seen this individual before. He was evidently some one who had come to meet the boat, for Carter did not recall him as a passenger.
“You are Carter Boswick?”
The man’s question was calm, but solemn. Carter nodded, wondering who the man might be.
“I am Farland Tracy. I have come to meet you.”
The name was momentarily unfamiliar. Then Carter recalled his father’s letter. The young man thrust his right hand forward.
“My father’s attorney,” he said.
“Yes,” responded Tracy, in an even tone. “I was your father’s attorney.”
As Carter blinked in slow understanding, Tracy’s hand dropped gently upon the young man’s shoulder. The lawyer’s eyes were sympathetic.
“Your father is dead, Carter,” he explained quietly. “He felt that the end was near the day he wrote his last letter to you. You received it? In Havana?”
Carter Boswick nodded.
“Your father lived scarcely more than twenty-four hours after he sent that letter,” resumed Tracy. “He was weary of life—incurably ill—a shell of himself as you had known him. He chose that you should not know until you had reached New York.”
It was with difficulty that Carter Boswick controlled his emotions. For years, his father had been scarcely more than a name to him. They had never quarreled, but there had never been a real understanding between them. Returning to America, Carter had sensed that his present maturity might enable him to meet his father on a basis of mutual friendship that had not existed in the past.
A surge of regret swept through the young man’s mind. He realized that he, while not a prodigal, was scarcely a deserving son. Farland Tracy sensed the mingling of emotions. He seemed to understand, and his kindly sympathy came to the fore. He beckoned toward his chauffeur, who had followed him on the pier.
“Take charge of Mr. Boswick’s luggage, Holland,” the lawyer ordered. “He and I will take a taxi to the Law Club. We are having luncheon there. Call for us about three thirty.”
HOLLAND was not the only person who heard the order. Lamont Cranston, apparently busy with a customs agent, had listened to Farland Tracy’s words.
A few minutes after Tracy and Carter Boswick had left the pier, Lamont Cranston followed. He stopped in a telephone booth and made a brief call. After that, he hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the Law Club.
There was a thin smile on Cranston’s lips as he alighted at the portals of the Law Club. He entered the building, and spoke to the attendant who inquired his business there.
“I am Mr. Cranston,” he said in a quiet tone.
“Yes, Mr. Cranston,” responded the attendants. “You may enter, sir. Judge Lamark just called, sir. He said that you were to he admitted.”
Cranston still smiled as he walked through the lobby of the exclusive club. His phone call from the pier had brought quick results. Judge Vanniman Lamark was a friend of Lamont Cranston. He had been pleased to hear from him, He had promised to arrange Cranston’s admittance to the club, and would try to meet his friend there at three o’clock.
In the grillroom of the club, Cranston discovered Farland Tracy and Carter Boswick ordering lunch in a booth at the side of the room. Unnoticed, Cranston slipped into the adjoining booth. He gave a quiet order to a waiter; then listened intently. His keen ears caught every word that passed between Farland Tracy and Carter Boswick.
“As I have stated,” Tracy was saying, “your father made you his sole heir-except for a moderate but ample income that he left to your cousin, Drew Westling.”
“Why wasn’t Drew at the boat to meet me?” questioned Carter.
“I don’t believe that he knew when you were coming in,” answered Tracy. “Your father told him that you were on your way from Montevideo; but I don’t think that Drew inquired the day of your arrival. Your father’s death was a blow to Drew.”
“Of course,” agreed Carter. His tone, however, showed a tinge of disappointment. Drew Westling was his only relation, now that Houston Boswick was dead.
“You will probably find Drew at the house,” declared Tracy. “He is living there; and Headley, your father’s servant, has remained. There are other domestics—Headley is the only one of consequence. He is something of a supervisor, or caretaker.”
Farland Tracy paused after this explanation. Then, in a new train of thought, he came to a matter that proved to be of special consequence.
“There is a certain factor regarding your father’s estate,” resumed the lawyer, “that I cannot mention just at present. I discussed it with your father shortly before his death. My instructions were to wait until you had reached the home, and had established a residence there.
“Technically, such residence will begin as soon as you have stepped across the threshold, providing you announce your intention of keeping the old house. You will assume your father’s place as master there. So I shall come to visit you this evening. We can discuss affairs in the rooms that used to be your father’s study.”
There was a seriousness in the lawyer’s tone that impressed Carter Boswick.
“TELL me,” questioned the young man. “Was all well at the time of my father’s death?”
“Yes and no,” responded the lawyer thoughtfully. “Your father, Carter, had been living under certain apprehension. He had hoped for your return. If you had not come back, Drew Westling would have been his heir. Therefore, he took rather extraordinary methods to protect his estate.
“At the time he died, he believed that certain efforts were being made to interfere with his plans. He did not seem to fear that his life was in danger; but he did think that his property might be in jeopardy.
“H
e was positive that unknown persons had entered his home during his absence, in an effort to frustrate his plans. There was, however, no trace of an actual plot. He might have been mistaken—”
Carter Boswick interrupted. In a low, tense voice, he recounted his adventure in Havana, and the episode that had taken place aboard the Southern Star. Farland Tracy listened intently to the story. When Carter had concluded, the lawyer rubbed his chin in deep thought.
“Those events may be of a serious nature, Carter,” he declared. “It seems amazing that two attempts should have been made upon your life, at a time when you were coming home to gain a heritage. On the contrary, they may have been chance episodes. They may have no bearing upon your present situation. That, I sincerely hope, is the case.”
“Why?” questioned Carter, as the lawyer paused.
“Because,” continued Tracy, in a regretful tone, “there is only one person who could profit by your death.”
“Drew Westling?”
“Yes.”
Carter Boswick chewed his lips. He knew that Farland Tracy had spoken an apparent truth. Nevertheless, he was loath to believe that his cousin could be planning perfidy.
That, too, appeared to be Tracy’s thought. The lawyer expressed it in definite terms.
“Drew Westling is a spendthrift,” he declared. “Shortly before your father’s death, Drew lost heavily at the gaming table. I did my utmost to disentangle him from the snare. I succeeded only partially—enough to protect Drew for the time.
“I said nothing to your father regarding the matter. Had I mentioned it, Drew would probably have lost his income, and all claim to the estate, had you failed to arrive home.”
While Carter was still nodding his understanding, Tracy continued in a milder, more tolerant tone.
“Nevertheless,” he resumed, “Drew is a likeable young man, with all his faults. I would hesitate to class him as a plotter. I feel that he should be given the benefit of all doubt. At the same time, you should use discretion, Carter. My visit tonight will be important. It must be between ourselves. It concerns your affairs only.
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