MESSLER paused to look from Claverly to Cranston. The former showed only mild interest; the latter was impassive. Messler chuckled at this indifference. It pleased him.
“On Thursday night,” declared Messler, “I expect to invite a few chosen friends to my home on Riverside Drive. They will have the opportunity of viewing the gems. I should like to have both of you among the guests. Can I count on that pleasure?”
Claverly frowned as he lighted a cigarette. He was considering the invitation, glancing toward the ceiling as he flicked his match. Finally, he nodded.
“I’m due in Torburg,” he said, “but I can probably arrange to stay a few days in New York. I’d like to look about town before I leave. I’ll call my father’s lawyer by long distance, to tell him that I am detained. Yes, Messler, I can be there on Thursday.”
“And you, Cranston?” inquired Messler.
“Suppose I call you,” responded Cranston. “I am not yet sure of my plans. I am contemplating a trip to Patagonia, which may offer some of the adventure that I failed to find in Africa. But it will probably be necessary for me to remain in New York at least two weeks.”
“I think I can count on you, then,” decided Messler. He arose and Cranston copied his example. “Good night, gentlemen. Don’t be surprised if you see a squad of police when you dock. They will merely be detailed to protect my jewels.”
Claverly was still seated when the others left the smoking room. The suave young man was finishing his cigarette. He watched Messler waddle from the room. He saw Cranston follow, a few moments later.
Unlike Rosling and Messler, Cranston did not experience trouble from the rolling of the ship. Across the smoking room, he caught his balance with each lurch. The same was true when he reached the passageway.
Tall, sweeping in stride, this traveler from Africa moved as steadily as if he had been walking on solid ground. He descended a stairway, followed another passage, and paused at the door of a first-class cabin. He unlocked the barrier and entered the darkened room.
There was a click as Cranston drew the cord of a table lamp. His tall form showed as a dim outline just beyond the range of light. The shaded illumination revealed him stooping above a bag that rested on a rack.
Black garments came into view. A cloak swished over shoulders. A broad-brimmed slouch hat settled upon Cranston’s head. Then came a soft, whispered laugh as the transformation was completed.
Lamont Cranston had become a being of blackness. Thin gloves were slipping over his long-fingered hands. His outline was that of a mammoth blot.
A hand drew the light cord. The blackened figure merged with the solid darkness of the room.
The door of the cabin opened. Out stepped the sinister form that had developed within. Silent in tread, this shape moved along the deserted passage. A ghostly visitant was aboard the steamship.
MEN of crime would have faltered had they seen that figure. For this being was one of whom they talked in hushed voices. He was no haunting ghost; he was a grim reality. This strange creature who had replaced Lamont Cranston was The Shadow.
In places where danger lay; in spots where opportunity lured men of crime — there one could expect The Shadow. Master of darkness, a fighter who battled evil, The Shadow made it his task to thwart the hordes of crookdom.
Suspects aboard a P & O liner — radioed reports of attempts to gain a fortune in jewels — these had been sufficient to bring The Shadow from New York to Liverpool, in time to board the steamship Laurentic.
Scotland Yard had relied upon the strength of the ship’s safe to guard Augustus Messler’s gems. Men had been stationed aboard as an added precaution. Messler was confident that his possessions were protected; otherwise, he would not have talked.
But all the while, the rare gems were also under the guard of an unseen watcher. Safes could be blown; detectives could be shot down. But The Shadow, his very presence unknown, could not be eliminated. He was here, ready to step in where others might fall.
The voyage was nearly ended. The Shadow, ever-watchful, had decided that the jewels were safe. They would reach New York; they would be carried to a place of safety; but the trail would not end there. The Shadow could judge the future as well as the present.
Keenly, The Shadow knew that danger lay ahead. Already he could scent the plans of scheming minds. Before the Laurentic docked, final ways of crime would be prepared. To learn of those arrangements was The Shadow’s present purpose.
The Shadow had dropped the guise of Lamont Cranston. In his chosen character of blackness, he was stalking forth to learn the schemes that brewed.
CHAPTER II
TWO TALK TERMS
TEN minutes had elapsed since Lamont Cranston had strolled from the smoking room. A man was coming along one of the narrow passages of the Laurentic. He stopped before the door of a cabin and unlocked it. He turned on a light switch as he entered the room. The glare showed the features of Milton Claverly.
The young man closed the door behind him, but did not lock it. He smiled in a somewhat leering fashion as he drew a stack of bills from his pocket and deposited the money upon a table.
Forgetting his winnings for the moment, Claverly doffed coat and vest and walked to a wardrobe in the corner of the cabin.
The door of the wardrobe was open. Claverly hung the garments on a coat hanger and slammed the door as he turned away to remove his necktie and collar. The door of the wardrobe bounced open: the roll of the ship swung it toward the wall. As Claverly turned, he saw the door hanging there as if glued in position.
The ship lurched; the door wavered. It still remained open. Claverly shrugged his shoulders. He wondered why the door did not swing shut again, but he had no time for such trifles. He gathered up the winnings that lay on the table and stuffed the bills in his pocket. Hardly had he done so before a cautious knock sounded at the door of the cabin. Claverly strode over and opened the door.
Rosling entered. The sharp-faced man glowered as he closed the door behind him. He shot the bolt; then looked at Claverly, who was smiling in sophisticated fashion.
“Well?” growled Rosling, by way of query, “what did you find out?”
“Not much,” responded Claverly, as he lighted a cigarette. “Messler left shortly after you did.”
“Yeah?” Rosling’s voice was gruff. “Then how about that dough I was hooked for.”
“Hooked?” quizzed Claverly. “I don’t like the word, Rosling. It’s a poor way for a fellow to talk. The fault was your own. You don’t know how to play cards.”
“Maybe I don’t,” retorted Rosling, “but a guy that can slide the pasteboards the way you do — well, a guy like you don’t need luck. You’re a card sharp; there’s no use arguing that point. Come on. Divvy.”
“That’s not in our arrangements.”
“No? Well, it wasn’t arranged for you to fool around and get nowhere with Messler.”
CLAVERLY smiled. He blew a cloud of smoke and eyed Rosling narrowly. The door of the wardrobe was still open and wavering with each pitch of the ship. Claverly did not notice it; nor did Rosling.
“Let’s get things straight, Rosling,” suggested Claverly, in a tone that had a smooth purr. “You and I met aboard this steam ship — strangers until we had left Liverpool — and we made an acquaintanceship. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Last night” — Claverly seemed reminiscent — “you paid me an unexpected visit in this cabin. On that occasion, you were equipped with a businesslike revolver. You said you had come to demand a showdown. I did you the honor of thinking you were a detective.”