The Shadow reentered the bunk room. He approached Sailor’s resting place and bent forward, his figure on the near side of the dying man’s head. The Shadow spoke in a hoarse growl, that Sailor took for Beef’s.
“Spill it, matey,” he ordered. “I’m here, listening.”
SAILOR strained his head upward, trying to see his companion. The effort was too great. Sailor groaned and closed his eyes. He heard a grunt from above. Satisfied, Sailor spoke wearily.
“You — you gotta do somethin’ for me, Beef,” insisted the dying man. “I–I fixed things, see? Fixed ‘em with a guy named Rigger — Rigger Luxley. Shipped him and his outfit aboard the Zouave.”
A grunt from The Shadow. It resembled Beef’s usual type of comment.
“You know the ship,” persisted Sailor. “Hilder’s the skipper, Jason Hilder. Owns a half interest in the tub. Wasn’t nobody wanted to ship aboard that tramp. I talked Hilder into takin’ Rigger aboard, with a mob to fill out the crew. Hilder — Hilder got five grand for the deal.
“I was — I was coverin’, here ashore — coverin’ for Rigger” — Sailor paused wearily — “an’ I–I gotta tip him off. You can do it, Beef — do it for me — with a wireless to the Zouave. I–I’ll tell you how to spring it—”
A spasm of coughing shook Sailor’s frame. Vainly, the dying man tried to speak. When he did find words, they were maudlin. Disconnected phrases came in a choking voice.
“I’m coverin’ — coverin’ — for Rigger. Aboard the Zouave. Gotta — gotta tip him, Beef. There — there’s a guy here in New York. Yeah, I–I was coverin’ when they got me—”
A snarling sound came from bloated lips. Sailor’s body tightened; then dropped limp as a final gulp came from his throat. Glazed eyes froze. Sailor Martz was dead.
THE SHADOW stepped into the light. A sinister figure, he might well have represented death itself, come to gloat above the corpse of another traveler to the realm of oblivion. But The Shadow’s purpose was one that concerned the living, not the dead.
He had learned much. He knew a spot where crime was due — aboard the tramp steamer Zouave, captained by Jason Hilder, with Rigger Luxley, missing mobleader, on ship accompanied by a squad of killers. The Shadow knew that the Zouave could be traced. The tramp had cleared port only a dozen hours ago.
But The Shadow wanted more facts. Swiftly, deftly, he searched Sailor’s body for articles that might mean new clues. The Shadow found nothing of value.
Turning about, the phantom-like figure moved through the outer cabin. Beef was stirring on the floor; but the big man had not fully regained his senses. The Shadow went out to the fog-laden deck. He stepped back upon the pier and made his way ashore.
From then on, The Shadow’s course tended away from the waterfront. It stopped at one point only; when The Shadow heard gruff voices and the clatter of footsteps. The Shadow flattened against a wall as three policemen shouldered past through the fog. The Shadow resumed his course; a soft laugh whispered from his lips.
The presence of bluecoats meant that Joe Cardona had learned that Sailor Martz was missing from the crowd hauled in during the raid. A search was on for Sailor; sooner or later, it would lead to the old barge at the end of the pier. But Sailor Martz, when the law found him, would be of no value as an informant.
Hazy street lamps showed a looming figure emerging from mist as The Shadow reached a lighted avenue beneath an elevated structure. A taxicab was standing by the corner, its driver lounging behind the wheel.
The Shadow entered the cab; he spoke in quiet tones.
The driver heard the instructions and looked puzzled. He wondered why a passenger wanted to go to Newark in all this fog. That, however, was the passenger’s business. The taxi driver chuckled at thought of the coming fare.
UP in a luxurious suite at the Hotel Marrington, four men had gathered for conference. Detective Joe Cardona was standing by the living room window, oblivious to the glistening glow of city lights that formed an aura through the outside fog.
Vic Marquette, still in his rough disguise, was seated in an easy-chair. The secret service operative still looked weak from the slugging that he had taken in combat with two dicks. Dye, however, covered the pallor that would naturally have been upon his face.
The others were men of dignity. One was middle-aged, heavy-set and square-jawed. His black hair showed but traces of coming gray. He had the look and manner of a big business executive. This was Caleb Wesdren, whose name and address Vic Marquette had carried in his pocket.
The other was a kindly faced, gray-haired man, whose features, despite their mildness of expression, held a ruggedness that was backed by steely eyes. Joe Cardona had heard of this man often. He was Senator Ross Releston, who stood high in importance among the Washington solons.
Cardona felt a trifle sheepish as he caught the glint of the senator’s steady-gazing eyes; then Releston’s smile put the detective at ease.
“A mistake was made tonight,” stated Releston, “but it was one of overreaction. It could have been avoided, Detective Cardona, had you been informed that Marquette was engaged in trailing Sailor Martz.”
“That’s a fact, senator,” returned Cardona. “I wish I’d known what was up. Maybe we’ll get Sailor, though. I’ve got a whole squad searching the waterfront. He was wounded. He couldn’t have gone far. But maybe if I knew why Marquette here was after Martz—”
Cardona paused as Releston smiled. The senator motioned for silence, then began his explanation.
“Briefly,” he declared, “the matter concerns war secrets. Various governments have been cooperating to prevent the theft of important inventions. Mr. Wesdren, as head of a large syndicate of manufacturers, has custody of valuable models and plans which pertain to devices useful in case of war.”
“All these are protected in my vault at Washington,” put in Wesdren. “But Senator Releston has informed me that international spies may be after them.”
“We received information from England,” explained Releston, “that involved thefts accomplished there. One of Scotland Yard’s undercover men is coming to New York on the Steamship Doranic. He is due tomorrow. What is the man’s name, Marquette?”
“Eric Delka,” responded the operative. “But he’s reserved his rooms at the Goliath under the name of Jarvis Knight.”
“Delka will be contacted after his arrival,” remarked the senator. “But, in the meantime, we received cabled advice from London which named two men for whom we should be on the lookout. Give Detective Cardona the details. Marquette.”
“One chap,” declared Vic, turning to Joe, “goes under the name of Jed Barthue. Slippery customer — I’ve heard of him before. Talks a bunch of languages and goes everywhere. International spy and nobody’s got a good idea of what he looks like.
“Barthue swiped some British inventions and shipped the models out of Liverpool. That’s as far as Scotland Yard traced him; but they did pick up a line on a fellow calling himself Sailor Martz. He had been seen around the Liverpool docks.
“The Yard found out that Martz shipped for New York. That made them think that Jed Barthue would be coming to America, too. Looked like another hook-up coming. So the idea was to find Sailor Martz and watch him. That was my job; I came to New York and spotted Martz on the waterfront.”
“WHEN did you first see him?” inquired Cardona.
“Last night,” replied Marquette. “I saw him coming out of Dory Halbit’s. That’s why I was back there tonight. This afternoon, though, I reported to Senator Releston, who was in town.”
“I was stopping at the Hotel Nestoria,” remarked Releston. “I am going to Washington by sleeper, tonight. That was why I gave Marquette the information that he could reach Caleb Wesdren here at the Marrington, in case of important news.”