“Speak!” The Shadow’s tone came in a shuddering hiss. “Speak, murderer — or die—”
The challenge ended in a whispered laugh. It brought stark terror to Warren Sigler; with terror came the futile frenzy that only horror can produce.
With a wild cry, Sigler leaped forward toward The Shadow. He was pouncing for that looming automatic. The Shadow did not fire. His free arm, swinging like a plunger, sent Sigler sprawling by the stateroom door. The man’s cry, however, had served as a signal.
There were bounding footsteps in the passage. As The Shadow whirled out from the door, he was met by three men, two coming from one direction; one from the other.
Hired thugs from Pernambuco, Sigler had held them in readiness. The secretary had entered the stateroom to parley with Mendoza. With all passengers on distant decks, enjoying the welcome cool of the night, assassination had seemed an easy task.
THE SHADOW, in his whirl to the passage, met the two men first. His automatic thundered as these fighters raised revolvers to shoot him down. Two quick shots; the hired assassins sprawled wounded in the passage.
The Shadow whirled, dropping as he did. The third assailant had swung to aim. The man fired; his bullet whistled through the tip of The Shadow’s slouch hat.
The Shadow’s laugh came resounding as his black-garbed shoulders dived forward. Tripping over the plunging form, the third Brazilian went headlong upon his fellows.
The Shadow had played a daring game, counting upon the inefficiency of the would-be slayers. He could not have battled thus with New York gangsters. The hired South Americans, however, were of inferior caliber in a close-range fight.
One man was prone on the passage floor as The Shadow rose. The second, wounded, had struggled to his feet and was diving to the passage that led to the deck. With him was the unwounded man whom The Shadow had spilled.
The two men fired wildly as they hustled for cover. As they headed for the deck, The Shadow swung in pursuit. Trapped by the rail, the startled South Americans turned to aim back into the side passage as The Shadow came lunging upon them.
The Shadow had picked the unwounded man. Like a living avalanche he struck the thug before the man could fire. The automatic, swinging, dealt a glancing blow to the fellow’s head. The South American sprawled to the deck as The Shadow whirled free.
The wounded man was shooting. His aim was wide. His shots missed the swiftly-moving target; it was not until The Shadow swung upright that he gained a perfect chance to fire. As the man’s nervous finger fumbled with the trigger, The Shadow loosed a slug from the automatic. The shot found the man’s right wrist. Already wounded in the left shoulder, the fellow dropped his gun and fell groaning to the deck.
Again, The Shadow’s laugh; with it a sudden shot from the passage. Warren Sigler, recovered, had dashed to the scene of the fray. Arriving at the deck, the frenzied secretary had staked all on a quick shot at the black-garbed figure that had whirled to a spot beside the rail, more than twenty feet away.
Sigler could handle arsenic better than an automatic. The bullet from his .38 whizzed through the sweeping fold of The Shadow’s cloak and found its only lodging in the rail. Sigler steadied for a second shot that never came from his gun. It was The Shadow’s .45 that boomed instead.
Aiming for a murderer who sought his life, The Shadow did not fail. His single shot was the final reward that Warren Sigler gained for treachery to a kindly master. The false secretary fell dead upon the deck.
Cries from above. Scurrying feet on the deck above The Shadow’s head. The black-garbed victor made his quick return toward the inner passage. Leaping over Sigler’s dead body he gained the inner passage before ship’s officers arrived. Choosing an open course, he faded from view.
CONFUSION reigned aboard the Southern Star. Warren Sigler was found dead; also a passenger from Pernambuco. Two other South Americans, one wounded, the other stunned, were discovered on the deck.
Quizzing convinced the captain that these men were of criminal status. One hour later, all the passengers aboard the ship were assembled in the dining salon for a rigid check-up. Two were found to be missing.
One was a Brazilian named Carlos Mendoza, concerning whom no information was available. The other was Edwin Berlett, a prominent New York attorney, in whose stateroom the battle had begun, and whose secretary, Warren Sigler, had been killed.
There was but one conclusion. Despite the denials of the stunned South American who had come to his senses, it was decided that the armed thugs had thrown Berlett overboard. The ocean, too, was picked as the final resting place of Carlos Mendoza.
Because Mendoza was unknown, it was decided that he must have been a member of the crooked crew. A fight was pictured on the deck. Berlett, going over the rail, dragging Mendoza with him, while Warren Sigler — not suspected of treachery — battled to save his helpless master, Edwin Berlett.
The captured South Americans admitted that they had been hired to come aboard the ship; but they claimed that their orders had been gained from Rio. They had been told to aid a man who whistled; that was all. Their nationality was a point that incriminated the missing Carlos Mendoza as their leader.
LATER, a tall figure was standing alone near the stern of the Southern Star. The deck light revealed the steady, masklike features of Lamont Cranston. But the whispered laugh that floated across the propeller-churned tropical sea was the echoed mirth of The Shadow.
Alone, of those aboard the Southern Star, The Shadow knew the true story of Carlos Mendoza. The Shadow had booked two passages on this ship. He had come aboard twice; once as Lamont Cranston, again as Carlos Mendoza. No one had suspected that a single passenger had played the part of two men between Rio and Pernambuco.
It was with faked talk of evidence that The Shadow had brought about a climax. His threatened exposure of Warren Sigler, based upon observations at the Hotel Nacional, had been sufficient to prepare a death warrant for the so-called Carlos Mendoza.
Also, The Shadow alone could have revealed the fact that Edwin Berlett had not perished. The Shadow knew that Berlett had followed through a clever scheme. He knew that the pilot ship, returning to Pernambuco, was the only way by which Berlett could have escaped from the Southern Star.
Why had Berlett fled? Why had he not remained to keep his appointment with Carlos Mendoza? The Shadow knew the answer. It was the note from Mendoza — not the interview with the pretended investigator — that had made Berlett decide upon his course.
The Shadow had not witnessed Berlett’s reading of the note; but he knew that the clever lawyer, shrewd in the past, crafty in the thought of the future, had decided that refuge in Pernambuco would be better for his plans than a further voyage aboard the Southern Star.
Edwin Berlett had departed. More than that, he had gained a reputation that might help him. Presumably, Berlett was dead. Where crime lay in the offing, a living dead man might hold a real advantage.
The Shadow had triumphed tonight, in pitched battle with vicious foemen. He had delivered necessary death to Warren Sigler, a murderer who deserved a violent end. But the swift battle aboard the Southern Star and the check-up of the passengers afterward, had proven of aid to the schemes of some one other than The Shadow.
Edwin Berlett, safe in Pernambuco, had played his cards well. He had read between the lines of Carlos Mendoza’s notes. He had played a crafty part during his interview with the pretended South American.
The Shadow, fighting for his own welfare and working in behalf of justice, had automatically performed another function when Warren Sigler had precipitated the struggle. The Shadow had abetted the cause of Edwin Berlett!