The chieftains hurried to unclose the exit, The Shadow entered his palanquin. He was carried from the temple. There, the waiting bearers took the palanquin while the Aztec leaders formed their pairs.
“Chicquatil! Chicquatil!”
The glad cry was echoed by the throngs of Aztecs who stood about the temple. The moon messenger was returning to the sky. With him, he was taking the gift of those who dwelt in Zeltapec.
The Shadow left the litter at the table rock. He walked alone into the sacred circle, holding his right hand high above his head. The huge emerald glistened like a mammoth green eye in the moonlight, its splendor dazzling the eyes of those who saw it.
The Shadow stepped up into the cockpit of the autogyro. The green light vanished as he placed the emerald beneath his coat. The motor began its roar. There was a rush of air as the huge fan above the ship began its revolution.
The autogyro moved. Forward it rolled; then upward in an almost vertical ascent. It rose higher and higher until it was but a black shape in the moonlit sky. Up toward the crescent moon — out of sight beyond the mountaintop. A tiny speck in the sky, it headed northward toward Texas.
The Shadow had found the lost city of Zeltapec. There, he had learned the secret held by six men of evil. He was on his way to deal with them now; and in his possession was the green chicquatil.
Six men of evil had come to Zeltapec to steal that matchless gem. They had been thwarted; and they had been marked with the face of Colpoc, the image of evil. The Shadow, here alone, had gained the magnificent jewel as a gift, in spite of his own protests!
The Shadow was returning now, to put an end to crime. There were six men — so the string of outrages was not ended. Other crimes were even now in the making as The Shadow’s plane rushed him back.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FOURTH PLOT
THE lobby of the Salina Hotel was virtually deserted. This was not unusual. The Salina Hotel was one of the oldest and least-frequented in Fargo, North Dakota. Business at this inn was so light that there was not even a clerk in constant attendance. Guests rang a loud bell on the desk and waited for someone to come in response.
On this particular evening, the man who entered the hotel lobby seemed pleased to note that no one was there to observe him. He walked past the desk, ascended a flight of stairs and walked along a dim corridor until he came to a room which bore the number 206. There he stopped and tapped softly. Leaning close to the door, he whispered a countersign:
“Chicquatil!”
The door opened. The man entered a darkened room. The door closed behind him. A light clicked on, to reveal the fact that the window shade was drawn. The light also snowed the features of the visitor and the man who was there to receive him.
Both of these men were alike in countenance. Their expressionless features sloped away from their flat, pudgy noses. Wordless, the two men smiled. The sinister, twisted curves of their lips formed identical expressions.
More than that, their grotesque leers produced another effect. Each of these men became the exact image of Colpoc, the god of evil whose hideous statue was in the Aztec temple at Zeltapec!
The grinning host waved his visitor to a chair. The two sat down and began a low, important conversation. They became totally oblivious to their secluded surroundings.
“Nobody saw me come in, Charley,” declared the visitor. “You picked a great spot here. I got your postal card three days ago, but I didn’t want to come over from Sharport until I was all set.”
“That’s the stuff, Horace,” responded Charley. “It was best to wait a few days before we got together. I did that with the others. No one suspects anything about a little trip out of town — a few days before the fireworks begin.”
The men were no longer smiling. Their expressions were solemn and impassive. It was curious that there should be two men so exactly like. Horace, the visitor, seemed to realize the fact as he gazed reminiscently at Charley.
But Charley, the host, was quite indifferent. For to him, this was but another meeting. Within the past several weeks, he had held three such consultations with other men who were his doubles. The fact suddenly impressed itself upon him and he mentioned it to his visitor.
“It does seem funny,” he declared, “to have you speak to me as Charley Kistelle. I don’t look any more like myself than the man in the moon.
“This is a great game — being someone else. Back in Tilson, Illinois, I was Earl Northrup. In Barmouth, Maryland, I was Harold Thurber. In Daltona, Georgia, I was Tom Rodan. Here, I’m going to be Horace Fenwick.
“You know, Horace, I thought I was going to hear from Eddie before I did from you. He’s down in a town called Riviere, near New Orleans. Your letter was sent there from New York, so I hopped up here to Fargo. It’s only about twenty miles to Sharport, isn’t it?”
“Twenty-two,” responded the man called Horace Fenwick. “So I edged in ahead of Eddie, eh?”
“Yeah,” responded Charley Kistelle. “He’s got a good lay down there in Louisiana. Calls himself Edward P. Montague. Nice moniker he’s picked. I don’t think Eddie will be ready for me for another week yet.”
Kistelle paused reflectively. He was staring at Fenwick. His eyes were away from the window. Hence Kistelle did not notice a peculiar phenomenon that occurred there.
The window shade was moving very slightly, as though the soft raising of the sash beyond had caused it to flutter. Then the window shade was still, its bottom a few inches from the sill. Yet through that small space, a shaft of blackness was projecting. The stunted outline of a phantom shape was moving inward upon the floor. Then the unnoticed motion ceased.
ALTHOUGH neither Charley Kistelle nor Horace Fenwick realized it, someone was beyond that shade. There, in the outer darkness, someone was listening.
That someone must have been a veritable creature of the night, for not a sound betrayed his hidden presence. Only the unmoving blotch upon the floor could have served as evidence to declare the presence of The Shadow!
“You see,” declared Charley, “everything has been pulled without a slip. I’ve got a man posted in New York. He attends to the forwarding of the mail. Your case has worked just like the others, but it took a little longer, as I wasn’t expecting you just yet.
“When I was in New Orleans, I sent a hotel card to New York. So when your letter blew in, it was forwarded to me. I hopped here in a hurry and sent a card air mail from here in Fargo. As soon as this job is finished, I’m moving south. Probably St. Louis or Kansas City. There I’ll send in another card to New York.”
“What if Eddie’s call comes in and is sent here?” questioned Fenwick anxiously.
“What of it?” responded Kistelle. “I’ll notify this hotel where I’m gone. They’ll forward it. Suppose any one should see the letter? That Aztec signal won’t mean a thing. The only point is that I have to get notification from you fellows far enough in advance. I’ve counted on all of you to have a perfect job ready for me.”
Fenwick laughed.
“I’ve got a corker,” he responded. “Ready any time — if I keep watching. Listen, while I spill the works.”
He looked anxiously about him. Noticing that all seemed well, Fenwick lowered his voice to a buzz and began a soft, careful story, to which Charles Kistelle listened with understanding nods.
“I get you, Horace,” he said. “Old Dagwood will go down to the jeweler’s shop any night you suggest it. Is that the idea?”
“Sure thing,” responded Fenwick.
Kistelle arose and paced the room. He glanced at his watch. It showed half past eight.
“Listen, Horace,” he said suddenly. “It’s a long jump from here to New Orleans. I’ve got the lay here perfectly. Why should we wait? How about tonight?”