“I have them already, Senhor,” laughed Mendoza, in a cunning tone. “I found a paper in the file which Sigler used in the Hotel Nacional. It had finger prints that match those on the bottles. It was a blank sheet, Senhor.
“I shall say that I placed that sheet of paper in Sigler’s cabin, here aboard the Southern Star. I shall add, Senhor, that it was not until the ship left Pernambuco that I obtained the impressions.”
“Good.” Berlett arose and clapped Mendoza on the back. “Your plan will work. It is justifiable under the circumstances. Sigler will have no come-back.”
“Then I shall see you, Senhor—”
“In this cabin, after the pilot ship has left the Southern Star outside of Pernambuco harbor.”
“Very good, Senhor. That will be our last contact with Brazil. But remember, you must be careful that Sigler does not suspect.”
“That will be easy. Come here with your evidence. Bring your credentials. You can then tell me your story officially and present the evidence. We will go to the captain, with the evidence still in your possession.”
“It is agreed, Senhor.”
Edwin Berlett conducted Carlos Mendoza to the door of the cabin. He waited until the Brazilian had passed along the corridor. Then Berlett, himself, stepped from the cabin. As he turned to close the door, the lawyer stared back into his room. He smiled as he noted the door to the wardrobe closet, which was visibly ajar.
STROLLING to the smoking salon, Berlett seated himself in a chair and lighted a cigar. Five minutes later, Sigler appeared. Berlett was writing memoranda upon a sheet of paper when the secretary found him.
“Take care of these letters,” ordered Berlett, passing his penciled items to Sigler. “Hurry them through and mail them ashore, by air mail. You have an hour yet, Sigler.”
“Yes, sir.”
The secretary thrust the notes in his pocket. He left the smoking salon. Edwin Berlett settled back in his chair.
Glancing about, he saw no sign of Carlos Mendoza. Edwin Berlett chuckled. Strolling from the salon, he reached the gangplank and also went ashore.
Carlos Mendoza had suggested a clever game as a follow-up of his note to Edwin Berlett. Warren Sigler had overheard the talk in full. There was a reason for Edwin Berlett’s chuckle. The crafty lawyer could foresee a different outcome than the one called for in his conversation with Carlos Mendoza.
CHAPTER VI
OUTSIDE THE HARBOR
DYING light of day guided the Southern Star on the final stage of its passage through the Pernambuco reef. The ship had been delayed due to loading. The Brazilian pilot, however, had still gained sufficient daylight to reach the open sea.
Then night had arrived with the booming suddenness so common in the tropics. Edwin Berlett and other passengers were standing near the stern of the Southern Star gazing toward the distant lights of Pernambuco.
A hand plucked at Berlett’s sleeve. The lawyer turned to see the steadied face of Carlos Mendoza. Berlett nodded. He spoke in a low tone.
“In fifteen minutes,” said the lawyer, “in my stateroom. The door is open.”
Mendoza stalked away. Warren Sigler, peering from a group of passengers, observed the Brazilian heading for a companionway. Sigler had overheard the words between the two men.
Edwin Berlett walked toward the steps that he customarily took to the smoking salon. Reaching another deck, he hurried along and neared the bow of the ship. There were no passengers in sight. Berlett glanced over his shoulder. Confident that he was unobserved, he descended by a companionway.
Picking a course which he had evidently chosen beforehand, Berlett reached the forward hold. He stepped through a bulkhead. Straight in front, he saw starlight glittering through the side of the ship. A coal hatch was open. Berlett reached his goal.
Below, the pilot ship was ready to cast off. It was nestled against the side of the Southern Star, resting in a calm sea. Calls from above indicated that the steamship was about to drop the pilot.
Directly below, two men were standing beside a heap of sacks near the stern of the pilot ship. Burlap showed almost white, in a blackened stretch against the side of the Southern Star. The sacks were less than ten feet below the spot where Berlett stood.
The lawyer gave a soft hiss. He could see the white caps nodding on the heads of the men just below him. Edging out through the coal hatch, Berlett half dropped, half sprang. He thudded softly on the pile of sacks.
The two men, roustabouts from Pernambuco, were quick to act. Stepping together, they formed a shield as Berlett dropped into a space beside the engine room of the pilot ship. Heaving sacks aside, the men let the burlap pile upon the lawyer. Each stooped and mumbled low words in turn. In response, Berlett’s right hand slipped money into eager fists. The roustabouts seated themselves beside the sacks.
The pilot was aboard his ship. The little craft moved clear of the Southern Star. The big engines of the liner grumbled; the twenty-thousand-ton ship moved forward, while the pilot’s boat swerved for its return through the reef to Pernambuco.
The coal hatch had closed in the side of the Southern Star. The last sign of Edwin Berlett’s clever departure had been eliminated. Under the protection of the bribed Brazilians, the American lawyer was returning in safety to Pernambuco. With the harbor reached, his departure from the sacks that hid him would be a simple matter. Expectant roustabouts were counting on another bribe. Their lips were sealed. The story of Berlett’s escape would remain unknown.
ABOARD the Southern Star, Warren Sigler was watching the fading light of the little pilot ship. The secretary’s face wore a thoughtful smile. He was planning a surprise trip to Berlett’s cabin. The time was here. Leaving his place by the rail, Sigler strolled, whistling, toward the companionway.
Three men by the rail — new passengers on at Pernambuco — stared as Sigler passed. A few minutes later, they left the place where they had been standing and entered the ship.
All this while, Carlos Mendoza was seated in a small cabin, waiting. Satisfied that the time for his appointment was nearing, the Brazilian arose and picked up a small bag that lay beside him. He left his own cabin, walked along deserted passages and reached Berlett’s stateroom. He opened the door and entered. He laid his bag on Berlett’s bed and unlocked the little grip.
Warren Sigler, watching from the end of a passage, had seen Mendoza enter. He had seen Edwin Berlett leave the deck some time before. Evidently Sigler was not worrying about his new employer. Mendoza — the man with the evidence — was the arrival for whom Sigler had posted himself.
Sigler sneaked forward. Softly, he opened the door of the stateroom. He entered. He looked about for Mendoza. All that he saw was the open bag upon the bed.
Advancing, Sigler glanced about. Still no sign of his man. Puzzled, Sigler stood still. Then curiosity gained the better of him. He pounced upon the bag, only to find it empty.
A creepy laugh came from the corner by the open door. Sigler whirled. He shuddered at the form which he saw before him. Instead of Mendoza, he was viewing a tall being clad entirely in black. Cloaked and with broad-brimmed hat, this spectral figure was covering the astonished secretary with an automatic.
A crook by profession, the false secretary knew the identity of the being who trapped him. He was faced by The Shadow. Dully, he realized that the role of Carlos Mendoza had been but a disguise for this supersleuth. Living in Rio de Janeiro, Warren Sigler had thought but little of The Shadow, the grim fighter whose prowess was so famous in New York.
Tonight, he was learning that the arm of The Shadow reached far. Minion of a master crook, Warren Sigler was trapped aboard the Steamship Southern Star, less than an hour out of Pernambuco.