So far, Harry hadn't used the automatic that he carried. This was the time to bring it into play. Rundon had rolled somewhere on the ground; Carradon was safe inside the boathouse. Hoping to bag the two crooks that he had seen, Harry yanked his gun and opened fire.
Instantly, a searchlight sliced a brilliant path from above the boathouse door. Harry was trapped in the beam; he was shooting blindly against men who had him as a target. Though the ground was uneven, stones were too small to offer shelter.
Flattening, Harry heard bullets whine past and crackle the turf of the slope behind him. From the closeness of those slugs, he could guess that the next few would find him, if his own shots did not score.
Then, from off a flank, came the fire of another gun. Its stabs were visible among the trees; with the tattoo of shots came the challenge of a mocking laugh, The Shadow's. The first bullet knocked the searchlight askew; the next shattered it.
Rolling along the ground, Harry was doubly safe. Foemen had lost his position in the darkness; they couldn't find it from Harry's next shots, for he had none left. Besides, they were busy blasting at The Shadow, the worst policy they could have chosen.
THE SHADOW was shifting as he fired: the spurts of his gun were useless as targets. But the crooks couldn't shift; they had dropped below the level of the boathouse door and were cramped there. They thought their shelter was sufficient; but it proved otherwise.
Picking their position, The Shadow provided accurate shots. A howl told that he had clipped one of the marksmen. Then, at a muffled call from somewhere in the boathouse, the crooks withdrew from the door. On his feet again, Harry stumbled forward; he was sure that he heard splashes as he neared the boathouse.
The Shadow's fire ended. Harry was met by the sheriff and others, who had dashed along the shore.
Men were pulling Rundon to his feet. One hand clapped to his head, Rundon pointed dazedly to the boathouse.
"They slugged me!" he gulped. "They've got Carradon... in there! Help him-"
Harry was already at the boathouse, beckoning. Half a dozen men, with a variety of weapons, from golf clubs to empty fire extinguishers, joined him. They surged through the broken door and stopped short, staring at a blank stretch of water.
The boathouse was nothing but a wharf with a shed over it. There wasn't a place where a person could hide, not even under the planking, for it showed large gaps where old boards had been torn away.
Carradon was gone; so were his captors, as surprisingly as if they had not been there at all.
From the shattered searchlight, wires ran to a storage battery that rested on the planking. The arrangement had been rigged from old equipment left in the boathouse, and it was the only tangible evidence that any persons had been around the place.
Why the thieves had abducted Howard Carradon was one riddle: how they had managed it, was another.
Like all mysteries, the problem of the departing crooks could be answered: but not by Harry Vincent, nor the others who had arrived after the fray. They had all come from one direction; Carradon's abductors had wisely gone the other way. One person had anticipated their route: The Shadow.
Instead of coming to the boathouse, he had made for the shore a hundred yards beyond, and to the left, intending to intercept his enemies. But they had fled by water instead of land, At the water's edge, The Shadow noticed the faint swash of ripples that others could not hear.
Looking out into the lake, he detected a dim phosphorescence, moving away at rapid speed. It was out of gun range, and shots would have spurred it, rather than stop its escape. Watching the course of that thin-foamed wake, The Shadow made out a flattish shape that vaguely resembled a large porpoise finning through the water.
It answered the description of the mysterious lake monster mentioned by Professor Scorpio. Like all the professor's statements, this one was subject to amendment.
The thing that The Shadow saw was making too timely a trip to he some finny creature of the lake. It was a man-made contrivance, carrying away Carradon, along with his captors, the men who had gained the stolen jewels.
His eyes fixed on the whitish flecks, The Shadow traced the path of the strange, noiseless craft far out into the lake. He took bearings on a mountain peak that made a jagged dent into the starlit sky.
Pacing to the boathouse, where Harry and the rest had finished their search, The Shadow placed his cloak and hat beneath a convenient plank, to be regained later.
Once more in the guise of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow started up the slope to the hacienda, to rejoin the guests of Paula Lodi and hear their conflicting versions of how crime had occurred.
CHAPTER VII. PROFESSOR SCORPIO APOLOGIZES.
CLAD in spotless linen, Professor Scorpio sat in a deep-cushioned chair, his head swathed in white. He wasn't wearing a turban; his headdress consisted of bandages. Despite his black beard, the professor looked very pale, as though still suffering from injuries incurred the night before.
Scorpio was in the reception room of the bizarre house that he called his Castle. He was receiving a committee of wealthy neighbors, who had come to express their indignation over the theft of Paula Lodi's jewels and the abduction of her husband. They were finding, to their surprise, that Scorpio was quite as indignant as they were.
There were three men on the committee: Henry Denwood, Niles Rundon, and a man named Hugo Grendale. Denwood had been chosen, because he was generally liked by everyone in the colony.
Rundon represented the group who wanted action; he was known to be a go-getter, and was the one man who had actually managed to put up a struggle with Carradon's abductors.
As for Grendale, he was one of the wealthiest members of the Calada colony; therefore much esteemed in a community where money held the greatest sway. Moreover, Grendale had a domineering manner, that went with his big-jowled, beetle-browed face. He was the very sort to deal with a faker like Scorpio.
The committee had brought two others with them. One was Lamont Cranston, invited by Denwood, who felt that a newcomer's opinion might produce a fresh viewpoint. The other was Sheriff Kirk, summoned by Grendale, who wanted to show Scorpio that the law was on the side of the committee.
"No one can regret last night's events more than I," spoke Scorpio in a silky tone. "Miss Lodi was one of my most valued clients. It grieves me that she should have suffered financial loss."
"I think I understand," boomed Grendale, thrusting his heavy face forward. "You don't like your clients to lose money, or any other valuables that they might hand over to you."
"Exactly!" returned Scorpio, with a weary grin. "Paula Lodi was one of my best patrons. Does it occur to you"-he tilted his head, wisely-"that she might have given me her jewels, eventually, as payment for my séances?"
"Tommyrot!"
Before Grendale's booming tone had faded, Scorpio was gesturing about the room. The place was decorated with valuable tapestries, jeweled lamps, carvings of jade and ivory. Even the floor was covered with rare Oriental rugs, so thick that they overlapped.
"All these," declared Scorpio, blandly, "are the gifts of those who believe in the stars, and word from the spirits who dwell in the beyond."
"Which brands you as a swindler!" thundered Grendale. "I'll drive you and all your sort out of this colony!"
"Begin with your own committee, then." suggested Scorpio. "You have quite a reputation as a financier, Mr. Grendale. I happen to know the inside of that story; how you bought up worthless lands, and then swung irrigation projects your own direction."