A DOOR led from this cavern. It was locked, to close the path that Ruff had taken. The flashlight's gleam focused upon a keyhole. A gloved hand moved forward, carrying a blackened metal pick. The Shadow probed the lock.
The door yielded. The Shadow stepped through and locked it from the other side. His flashlight glimmered to show a passage wider than the one that led to Elger's house. This had evidently been used - years ago - for the removal of valuables to the safety of the swamp.
This passage was also longer than the other. When The Shadow reached the end of it, he found himself in a low cellar. His light showed a flight of steps in the corner. Moving upward, The Shadow encountered a heavy trapdoor. He raised it and emerged into the night.
Winds whistled fiercely through the trees that sheltered this spot. Moist, matted underbrush settled soggily in place as The Shadow lowered the trap. He had come from one of the cellars in the old slave quarters. The entrance was hidden by clustered jungle weeds that rested on it.
A glimmer of the flashlight showed a tangle of cypress roots that formed a higher level. In darkness, The Shadow stepped upward, then paused abruptly. From close by, he heard a squdgy sound; indication of a footstep in swampy ground. The Shadow waited; the next token was a scrape against a cypress root. The Shadow wheeled; shot both hands into the darkness.
The move was timely. A bulky figure hurtled upon The Shadow. A snarl came from the attacker's lips as The Shadow grappled. It was not Ruff Turney's tone. This fighter was an underling, like "Nicky" and "Hungry," the two who had been slain on the beach. The fellow had merely chanced upon The Shadow.
Luck served the attacker. Twisting away, The Shadow backed against a cypress; lost his footing and came to one knee. Ham-like hands clutched for his throat; The Shadow gave a gasp that brought a pleased snarl from his antagonist. The thug choked harder, ignoring the clutch of The Shadow's hands upon his arms.
That was all The Shadow needed. His grip tightened; he shot his body upward like a trip hammer. His shoulders hoisted backward; the attacker was propelled headlong by the sudden jujitsu thrust.
It came so forcefully that the thug lost his finger grip upon The Shadow's throat. A surprised snarl sounded as the crook took his six-foot dive; there was a crackling of underbrush, followed by a dull crash some distance below.
Crawling down beside the cypress roots, The Shadow used his flashlight to discover an opening in the jungle-like growth; The gleam displayed a pit, eight feet deep; at the bottom lay a twisted figure, back upward, but with goggle-eyed face turned full about.
The thug had plunged through a third layer of overgrowth into a forgotten cellar. His head had struck the stone floor; his neck had been broken in the crash. It was plain that his death had been instant.
THE SHADOW extinguished his light. He took to the marshy ground; changed course to seek a higher level. Picking a direction through vines and brambles, he reached a spot where the howling winds increased; and the roar of surf came with crashing tumult.
The Shadow had gained the beach, above the lower inlet. He took a course beneath the fringing trees. Shrouded beneath the overhanging branches of oaks, the weird prowler moved toward the look-out house. Reaching the building, The Shadow skirted the tabby walls to arrive at a side window of the living room.
There, he found outside bars, set in a frame held by heavy screws. The Shadow produced a small combination tool that served as screwdriver. He loosened the framework and removed it.
The Shadow had anticipated this easy entry. He knew that Elger had no need for barred windows; these frames were a mere pretense, to build up Elger's claim that he was a recluse who feared prowlers.
The Shadow opened the clamped window sash by means of a thin metal wedge. Entering the house, he replaced the barred frame; then clamped the window. He blended with the blackness of the living room.
Soon, motion ceased within the silent house. Only the banshee-like wail of the hurricane remained. Howling winds seemed angered as they twisted among mighty trees that thwarted their wrath. Those winds alone carried the secret of The Shadow's presence on Timour Isle.
Tomorrow, Ruff Turney would find his crew another man short. Discovery of the body would not indicate a fray. It would look as though the dead thug had stumbled over the cypress roots in the darkness, to accidentally plunge into the pit.
One man more or less did not concern The Shadow. Though he was stranded on this lonely isle, like the other castaways, he had accomplished much. He had listened in on Elger's schemes; he had seen the wealth that the master crook had hidden; he had learned the identity of George Dalavan.
Most important, however, was the fact that The Shadow, like Purvis Elger, had gained contact with the outside world. The supercrook could move distant men into action; and he had done so. The Shadow, by his added message, had accomplished the same.
In New York, The Shadow had agents of his own. He had sent them information through Elger's own outlet.
The carrier of The Shadow's message would be none other than George Dalavan!
CHAPTER IX. THE NEXT NIGHT
A NEW evening had arrived on Timour Isle. The castaways were gathered in Elger's living room. Seth Hadlow and Bram Jalway were chatting while they smoked. Francine Feldworth was curled up on a couch reading a volume from a bookshelf. Professor Marcolm was at a desk in the corner, working problems on a chessboard, while Dashler was playing solitaire upon the window seat.
Ceaseless winds were wailing; tonight their intensity seemed greater than before. The captain of the Maldah had spoken wisely when he had predicted that the storm would increase. Purvis Elger's statement that it would be impossible to reach the mainland was borne out by the added fury of the tempest.
Elger had dined with his guests. After that, he had retired to his study. At intervals he dropped into the living room, always puffing at his meerschaum. Golga, too, was occasionally about.
"I'm turning in early," remarked Jalway to Hadlow. "This storm is endless. The only way to forget it is to sleep."
"Unless you're in the middle of it," returned Hadlow. "I'll wager that it's doubly bad out on the beach tonight. We're lucky that we came ashore when we did."
"One satisfaction," reminded Jalway. "It will be a tough night for those rogues who attacked us. I doubt that they will venture on the beach tonight."
"The trees are sheltering, though," said Hadlow. "It would be no trick at all to move about the island if one kept to the fringe of the woods."
A clatter came from the writing desk. Professor Marcolm was putting the chessmen away in their box. Rising, the white-haired castaway closed his board. He crossed the room, paused to mumble a good night, then continued on through the hall.
"The professor must have gained my copyright idea," remarked Jalway, with a slight smile. "I'm sure he didn't hear me say that sleep was the best procedure on a night like this. Well, I'm copying his example. Good night, all."
Jalway arose and departed. Hadlow finished a cigarette, then arose, stretched his long arms and spoke to the others. Francine looked up from her book; seeing that three of the castaways had decided to turn in, the girl tucked her book under one arm and followed shortly after Hadlow.
Dashler finished his game of solitaire. He looked about and shrugged his shoulders. The sailor felt the room chilling and oppressive with his companions gone. Gathering up the playing cards, he went to his room.
A DOZEN minutes passed. Golga entered the lighted room and looked about. Finding that all had retired, the big servant extinguished the light and went to the back hall. There he entered a room of his own and seated himself stolidly in a chair.