“He’s over the gunnels,” coughed Tanker. “Ease up, Pete. Let him flop. He had his talons in my neck; but he’s loosened ‘em at last.”
Pete had dropped his flashlight; but he and Tanker could hear and feel the slosh that came when their struggling visitor sank gasping into the bottom of the boat. Tanker found his flashlight and turned it on the dripping figure.
Squarely in the center of the rowboat lay a form attired in black trousers and a bedraggled white shirt.
Most of The Shadow’s make-up had survived; but his features were no longer a close resemblance of Lamont Cranston’s. He was still disguised; but only in a fashion. A grotesque hollowness had come upon his hawklike countenance. To Tanker and Pete, however, The Shadow was no more than a chance swimmer exhausted in the river.
“Ahoy, there!”
The tug was alongside the rowboat. A gangway opened; crew members gripped the little craft. Tanker and Pete stumbled to the tug’s deck while the others hauled the rowboat over the side.
Pete was starting an explanation; in the midst of it, The Shadow’s prone figure rolled from the inward tilting rowboat and sprawled upon the deck.
Jake Baliss had arrived; he started as he saw the living derelict. Tanker was too choked to talk; Pete acted as the spokesman.
“Guess the guy was trying suicide,” he stated. “Must have lost his nerve; for he grabbed Tanker, over the side of the rowboat. Only thing to do was haul him aboard.”
“How about pitchin’ the mug overboard right now?” came a growl from another crew member. “How about it, Mr. Baliss?”
“The guy’s out; he won’t make trouble,” Jake decided. He glanced toward The Shadow. “We’ll lay him in the fo’c’s’le. Lug him down there, Pete — you and Tanker; you fellows brought him aboard.”
THE men from the rowboat hoisted the limp body and carried their burden forward. Jake mumbled to himself; then went up to the pilot house, to report to Lem.
The hard-faced captain must have promptly turned the wheel over to his equally tough mate; for it was Lem himself who showed up in the forecastle soon after Tanker and Pete had arrived there with The Shadow.
“What was the idea, you boobs?” demanded Lem, as he surveyed The Shadow lying wan-faced in a bunk. “Trying to make a bid for a Carnegie Medal? I didn’t hire you to be a couple of life savers.”
“There wasn’t no way out,” returned Tanker, who had found his voice. “This egg was yanking me overboard, Lem.”
“Someone said something about heaving the guy overboard,” remarked Pete. “It don’t seem right, though, skipper, when you figure he ain’t done no harm, and our job—”
“Your jobs will be whatever I order!” rasped Lem. “When I’m ready to get rid of this bird, I’ll call on you two for it. Anybody that begins to act soft don’t belong with my crew. That goes for both of you!”
Scowling, Lem Hurdy looked toward The Shadow. He saw eyelids flicker weakly; they opened to reveal straight-staring optics. Then the eyelids closed; The Shadow’s head wavered from side to side.
The tugboat captain attributed this condition to the shock of nearly drowning; but Lem’s surmise was wrong. The Shadow was actually suffering from an attack of the “bends,” produced by the sudden decompression from his quick trip to the outer air.
“Keep an eye on him,” decided Lem, turning to Tanker and Pete. “I’m holding the two of you responsible. Take turns staying here; and when you get the word from me, tie the guy up. If he begins to kick up trouble in the mean time, sock him.
Lem went up to the deck. He noted that the tug was passing Governor’s Island. The lights of moored ships were twinkling in the harbor. Growling to himself, this skipper who served The Python stamped toward the pilot house.
“How about it?” queried Jake, when Lem entered. “Want me to get rid of the fellow now that we’re past the island?”
LEM shook his head.
“There’s ships moored all along here,” stated Lem. “Then comes the Narrows; after that the Lower Bay, where there’s likely to be some coast-guard cutters. We don’t want to heave that guy overboard where he may be picked up. Whether he’s alive or dead, he might be traced back to us.”
“You’ll hold him until tomorrow night?” inquired Jake. “Is that the idea, Lem?”
“You’ve guessed it, Jake. This gazebo will be just one more floating corpse after that party’s finished.”
“Smart stuff, Lem.”
The tug steamed onward toward the Narrows. Outward bound, it carried The Shadow, still a prisoner. Escaping from one of the Python’s many Coils, he had fallen into the grip of another evil crew that served the same insidious master.
Yet The Shadow did not recognize his plight; nor had he learned the mission upon which this tug was bound. The tug Colonia was outward bound to aid in crime; to play its part in a fierce scheme of evil that The Python had prepared.
CHAPTER VII
ABOARD THE “TROPICAL”
DAWN showed the tug Colonia cleared from New York, plodding slowly northward at a reduced speed. On that same morning, the steamship Tropical sailed for Savannah, southward bound.
To Tanker and Pete, The Shadow was a charge. Less cruel than the other members, they could see no reason for neglecting the prisoner. Thus when the news was given that the passenger was less feverish, orders were given to truss The Shadow up should his recovery continue.
Meanwhile, aboard the steamship Tropical, a dance was in progress. Some passengers were busy dancing, some smoking in the smoking room. Others, however, were in their staterooms.
In Room 313, its occupant was a keen-eyed, nervous man of bronzed complexion, who paced back and forth across the room while he puffed at or around his twentieth cigarette.
A rap sounded on the door of the cabin. The nervous man opened the door and peered through a narrow slit. With a relieved smile he drew the barrier wide and allowed a uniformed man to enter. After that, he closed the door and locked it.
The nervous man, tall, thin and wiry, was Louis Revoort. His visitor, squatty and bluff-faced, and dressed in a tightfitting uniform, was the purser of the steamship Tropical.
“You wished to see me, Mr. Revoort?” inquired the purser, quietly. “Was it about the coffer that you placed in my care? Perhaps the contents of the coffer—”
“Shh! Don’t talk about it, purser. You are the only one who knows that the coffer holds great wealth. That is why I sent for you. I believed that you would understand my fears.”
“The coffer is safe, Mr. Revoort. I placed it in the strong box in my office. I alone have the keys; the office itself is locked. No one could break in there.”
“Someone may try. I am warning you of it, purser. Please take my advice; have your office watched — by reliable persons. If dangerous persons try to enter, they will make themselves known by their act. Then they can be apprehended—”
“You told me this before, Mr. Revoort,” interposed the purser, wearily. “You are repeating yourself.”
“Yes; but you have failed to follow my advice.”
“Perhaps, although I have been watchful. Frankly, Mr. Revoort, I have seen nothing to make me share your apprehensions. However, I shall post men on duty before I retire.”
Revoort nodded eagerly. The purser smiled and stepped toward the door. He unlocked it; then made a suggestion.
“The air will be clearer in the smoking room,” he stated. “Why don’t you go there, Mr. Revoort? Get yourself out of this cloud.”
“All right.” Revoort smiled a weary agreement. “You’re taking my advice, purser. I’ll follow yours.”
ACROSS the short side corridor, the door of Cabin 309 was slightly open when the purser appeared from Revoort’s room. It closed, without an audible jar. A hand pressed a light switch; side brackets revealed two men. One, a quiet, clean-cut chap, had been listening at the door. The other, huskier and of chiseled countenance, was seated in a chair.