He caught a glimpse of Jerry Herston stepping forth. He saw the man glance quickly in both directions. Then Herston strolled along the deck in a direction opposite to Harry’s location.
There was no chance to move until Herston was out of sight. As soon as he was sure the man was gone, Harry stepped to the door of the stateroom. He saw a light in the frosted window. He rapped twice; when he received no response, he entered.
Within the doorway, Harry stopped. His blood froze. In the horror of that moment, he rested his hand upon the knob of the half-opened door, but lacked the power to push the barrier shut. Experienced though he was at meeting the unexpected, Harry could only stare in grim tenseness.
On the floor of the cabin lay the body of a man. Harry saw a purpled face, a countenance once swarthy, which now was blood-swollen. From an opened mouth, beneath a pointed black mustache, extended a long tongue that drooped from the agony of death.
The man’s collar had been ripped away. His arms were twisted askew beneath his body. The side of his head bore rough, ugly bruises.
It was obvious how death had come. Some powerful adversary had leaped upon the victim unaware, had hurled the man bodily to the floor and had beaten out his life against the edge of the berth.
Bruising, crushing force, together with brutal strangulation had brought prompt murder. Harry knew that this man must be Luis Santo. He pictured Jerry Herston, powerful and swift, leaping upon Santo in mortal combat.
Death, despite its brutality, could have been almost soundless behind the closed door. The strains of a band were coming from somewhere on another deck. Harry recalled that the sound had been plain while Herston had been in this cabin.
He wondered not at the swiftness and effectiveness of the murder, but at its daring. Santo could not have been asleep when Herston entered.
Of a sudden, Harry’s senses returned. He realized that he was standing with a door opened beside him, staring at murder which someone else had committed. At the same instant, Harry had an instinctive feeling that eyes were watching him.
He backed to the deck, looked quickly in both directions and decided that the impression had merely been a delusion.
In moving backward, Harry had automatically closed the door. His thoughts reverting to Jerry Herston, he turned and walked along the deck in the direction which the ex-detective had taken. Despite the tense sensation which the sight of death had given him, Harry did not look back.
Hence he did not see the tall form that suddenly materialized from a deck post beside the rail. He did not see the figure that swept swiftly to the door of Stateroom 45, and entered there. Harry Vincent was too intent upon finding Jerry Herston.
WITHIN the cabin where Luis Santo’s body lay, The Shadow stood like a huge creature of retribution. He had arrived too late to save the Mexican’s life. Only a few minutes remained before the ship was due to sail, yet The Shadow was loath to leave.
Turning, he noted that Luis Santo’s coat and hat lay on a chair. Beyond, The Shadow saw the door of a huge, closetlike wardrobe. Swiftly, The Shadow studied the position in which the man’s body day in reference to the outer door of the cabin.
The Shadow went to the wardrobe. Its door was closed, but the knob did not resist when The Shadow’s gloved hand drew it. The fastenings of the wardrobe door had been flattened. Instantly, The Shadow recognized whence death had come.
Luis Santo had entered this cabin. He had held his hat and coat upon his arm. He had gone to the wardrobe. As he had reached for the knob the door had swung open. A fierce attacker had caught the Mexican totally off guard. Swift, brutal death had followed.
Where his agent, staring at death, had placed the burden of murder upon Jerry Herston, The Shadow had drawn different conclusions. He knew that the killer had been in that wardrobe; that, after finishing Santo, he had closed the door and placed the dead man’s hat and coat upon the chair.
Jerry Herston, like Harry Vincent, had viewed death; nothing more.
The Shadow placed his hand upon the door of the cabin. The portal opened far enough for his peering eyes to sight the deck. As the tall figure emerged from the stateroom, the strains of a bugle were sounding the final call for all ashore.
Harry Vincent, on the pier side of the ship, was standing by the gangplank, carefully eyeing all the persons who were leaving. Realizing at last that Jerry Herston must have gone ashore, he joined the final group of visitors who were departing from the El Salvador.
Once again, a fleeting, shadowy form moved in the wake of those upon the gangplank. As the departers reached the pier, a tall figure separated itself from the small throng.
The steamship was moving from its berth. Tugs were drawing it into the river. Its lights aglow, the El Salvador turned its nose downstream. It formed a vivid picture, that black hulk with its illuminated cabins. Those who had come to wish their friends bon voyage were gone. Only one remained to watch the liner swing amid the waters of the North River.
That one was The Shadow. A silent, motionless sentinel at the end of the deserted pier, he saw the long island of floating light as it headed toward the lower bay. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s mysterious lips. It was a sinister laugh, more grim than mirthful. It betokened nothing of The Shadow’s secret thoughts.
Tonight, The Shadow had come upon the result of crime. He had reached the pier in time to witness Harland Mullrick’s departure. He had watched his agent, Harry Vincent, follow Jerry Herston to the scene of death.
Was this the beginning of new thrusts designed to further the schemes of a man who considered wealth more valuable than justice? Only The Shadow knew. He could find the answer; when death again was due, The Shadow would be ready.
The laugh died, sighing, unheard upon the lapping waters. It was a parting knell for ears that could not hear. Luis Santo had sailed. Fate had provided for him another destination than his native Mexico.
The Shadow knew how Luis Santo had died. The Shadow’s course was pointed toward the brain and hand that had conspired to perform that murder!
CHAPTER V
MEN SPEAK OF DEATH
THE next evening found Harland Mullrick comfortably seated in the living room of the apartment which Jerry Herston had obtained for his occupancy. The tall, stoop-shouldered man was reading the final edition of an evening newspaper.
He tossed it aside as the door of the apartment opened. Pascual entered. The servant hung his coat and hat in the clothes closet and closed the door.
“I have mailed your letter, senor,” he announced, in Spanish, as he entered the living room.
Mullrick, lighting a cigarette, nodded his approval. Pascual went into another room. Mullrick remained unmoving until he heard a knock at the outer door. Noting that Pascual was not at hand, he went to the door and opened it. Jerry Herston entered. Like Pascual, he placed his hat and coat in the closet.
As the two men walked into the living room, the outer door opened slowly. Peering eyes spied the backs of the moving men. A tall form glided into the entry. The Shadow gained his spot of observation.
“Well,” remarked Mullrick, “I’m glad to know that you made sure of Santo’s departure. Your telephone call last night was satisfactory. Even the tone of your voice proved that there could be no mistake.”
“I’m positive,” returned Herston. He stooped to pick up the evening newspaper. After a glance through the front-page columns, he added: “Lack of news is sometimes good news.”
“In reference to what?” queried Mullrick narrowly.