“Who are you?”
“That is difficult to say.” Hildrow chuckled again as they walked along, with Hasker bringing up the rear. “To Hasker, I am known as Philip Pelden. To Wenshell, I am Carl Ostrow. Korsch — the man we are about to meet — also knows me by that name. But others have met me in various identities.”
A turn in the dirt road revealed a stocky, hatchet-faced man standing beside a parked sedan. Commander Dadren knew that this must be Korsch.
Smiling within his false beard, Hildrow introduced the rogue to Dadren; then pointed out Hasker, whom Korsch had never met before. Hildrow motioned Dadren toward the machine.
“Wait a moment,” objected the commander. “It is time that these high-handed methods were ended. You have the portfolio which contains my submarine plans. Why do you intend to keep me prisoner?”
“For reasons of my own,” snarled Hildrow, half forgetting the smug tone of the part that he was playing. “You are coming with us, commander. By force, if necessary.”
“And you intend—”
“To do with you as I see fit. We have your plans; I intend to hold you so long as you may prove necessary.”
“And after that?”
“I shall hold you longer, if you are not troublesome. But if risk is involved, I shall do away with you.”
Hasker was close with his revolver. Korsch had also drawn a weapon. Hildrow stepped up to the commander, found an automatic in his pocket and took the weapon. Dadren knew that a fight would be hopeless. With a shrug of his shoulders, he entered the machine.
Hasker followed. He and Dadren occupied the rear seat, while Korsch took the wheel. Hildrow, carrying the portfolio, stepped in front with Korsch. He looked around to make sure that Hasker still had his revolver trained on Dadren.
AS Korsch started the car, Hildrow opened the portfolio. He found an envelope and tore it open. He drew out a sheaf of diagrams. They were inscribed in India ink, on sheets of tracing paper. Sight of the tough cloth sheets brought a snarl from Hildrow. The fact that the diagrams were on transparent material aroused suspicion in his mind.
“Are these the originals?” he challenged, turning to Dadren.
The commander made no reply as he met the plotter’s glare. Again Hildrow glared.
“You have tried to trick us,” he declared. “Professor Whitburn had duplicate plans. Those have been destroyed. Possibly they were the originals. It is also possible that another set exists. These tracings do not satisfy me.”
Dadren remained unresponding. Hildrow recognized that he could not combat the commander’s iron will. Turning to Hasker, Hildrow snapped a new question.
“Where are the originals?” he demanded. “Back in the office at Cedar Cove?”
“I don’t think so, chief.”
“Why not?”
“Because the skipper — Dadren, here — told Wilkins to end the patrols while he was away. Last night somebody — I don’t know who it was — tried to break into the lab. If the originals were back at headquarters, Wilkins would still be patrolling—”
“That’s enough. It is apparent that nothing can be learned at Cedar Cove. Do you think that these tracings are the only plans?”
“I guess they are, chief. Unless they—”
“Unless what?” demanded Hildrow, as Hasker paused.
“When we were ready to hop off,” remarked Hasker, in a reflective growl, “Dadren here said something to his secretary. Told him to come up to Washington. To bring papers with him. Vincent is leaving on the afternoon express. I was just thinking, chief, that maybe Vincent—”
“Never mind the ‘maybe’, Hasker,” sneered Hildrow, still staring squarely at Commander Dadren. “You told me all I need to know. That fellow Vincent is the man we want.”
Turning, Hildrow buzzed instructions in Korsch’s ear. The hatchet-faced man nodded, as he turned the car on to a main road. One mile further on, he took another side road and pulled up beside an old house where a coupe was standing.
As Hildrow alighted from the sedan, Korsch gave a signal. A couple of tough-looking aids stepped from the coupe.
Hildrow beckoned Hasker from the sedan. One of Korsch’s men entered the back and took his post beside Commander Dadren. The other took Hildrow’s place in front. Hildrow gave an order to Korsch.
“Take this man up the river,” ordered Hildrow, indicating Dadren. “Hold him there until you receive further orders. I am taking the coupe. Send a man in to get it from the usual Washington garage.”
THE sedan pulled away. Hildrow watched until it was out of sight. Then the false-bearded plotter beckoned to Hasker. The two entered the coupe. Hildrow took the wheel; as the car started toward the main road, he spoke to Hasker.
“I am taking you to Tarksburg,” declared Hildrow. “There we shall make new contact with Wenshell. You will operate with him. We are going to capture those missing plans.”
Hildrow continued to talk in a cold, harsh tone as he guided the coupe along the high road. As the plotter talked, Hasker listened, signifying his understanding by occasional nods. Spellbound by Hildrow’s cleverness, Hasker was hearing the scheme whereby his evil chief expected to gain new success.
CHAPTER X
THE SHADOW’S TURN
WHILE Eric Hildrow was planning to follow up the capture of Commander Joseph Dadren, he was doing so with the confidence that, thus far, his methods had been entirely successful. Hildrow was sure that he had disposed of troublesome persons on the night before.
The arch-plotter would have been astounded could he have looked in upon the house of Professor Arthur Whitburn. The building on the wooded isle stood serene amid the morning daylight. Death Island had lost its sinister aspect. Within the house itself was a scene of quiet comfort.
Professor Whitburn was in his study. The white-haired inventor was working at his flat-topped desk. He had cleared away books and papers in order to make room for Quex. The big tiger-cat was lapping up the contents of a large bowl of milk.
Bragg had returned that morning. He had found the note on the cat’s collar when he had discovered Quex at the front door. Bragg had descended to unlock the door of the submarine chamber. Professor Whitburn and Stephen had accompanied him up the stairs.
Bragg had not seen The Shadow. That spectral visitant had remained silent and motionless in his place by the torpedo tube. His keen eyes had been fixed upon Bragg when the man entered; but Bragg, horrified at the sight of dead bodies, had never glanced in The Shadow’s direction.
Professor Whitburn had left the door open after he and Stephen had joined Bragg. Up in his study, the old inventor had given Bragg a brief description of what had occurred. He had given credit to himself and Stephen for thinking out the scheme of putting Quex through the periscope tube. Furthermore, he had motioned to Stephen to say nothing to the contrary.
Stephen had gone to the laboratory. Bragg had returned to the motor boat to get some packages that he had brought from the mainland. Professor Whitburn had said that he wished to be alone. The old man had an idea that he would soon receive a visit from The Shadow.
A SOUND from the door caused Quex to look up from the bowl of milk. The professor stared in the same direction. His face showed annoyance when saw Bragg standing in the doorway.
“I did not tell you to come back here, Bragg,” declared Whitburn. “Moreover, you must knock when you wish admittance to this room.”
No reply. Whitburn stared at the placid, rounded face of his subordinate. Bragg was a man with a somewhat owlish expression. His lips had a solemn droop that they maintained while Whitburn stared.
“What ails you, Bragg?” demanded the professor. “Why do you stand there staring like a lout? Speak up, man!”