Bolano had no inkling of his comrade’s fate. He and The Shadow were rolling across the deck. Bolano’s hand fell upon Stacks Lodi’s gun. With a savage cry, the second killer gripped the weapon and sought to press the trigger.
His effort was successful, but not with the result that he expected. The hand of The Shadow caught his wrist as he was about to fire. A twist occurred just as Bolano discharged the gun. Bolano groaned and crumpled away, the bullet in his own body. His fingers lost their grip, and the revolver bounced upon the deck.
Stacks Lodi, disarmed, had seen the amazing fight. He heard the shot, and saw The Shadow rolling free. With a gasp of terror, he ran along the deck, turned into a door that led to a corridor, and made his way back to the smoking room.
THE SHADOW arose. He saw the form of Bolano, dying on the deck. He reached the spot where Carter Boswick lay, and helped the groggy young man to his feet. When Carter Boswick fully regained his senses, he found himself lying on the berth in his own stateroom.
The aftermath of the strange fray began later that night, when a steward discovered the body of Bolano with the gun beside it. Stacks Lodi was still gambling in the smoking room when the news broke.
An investigation followed. It was learned that two men were missing — both South Americans — Cassalta and Herrando. Nothing else could be ascertained; but it was decided that all three — Bolano as well as the missing men — were of questionable character.
The report was that a quarrel must have occurred; that two had united to throw the third overboard. Then the two had battled: Bolano, shot by his antagonist, had managed to hurl him into the sea.
Carter Boswick wisely kept his peace. There was much that he did not understand about the attack which had been made upon him. He knew only that a mysterious stranger had once again appeared to beat off his antagonists.
It was Stacks Lodi who maintained a trembling silence. He, too, was perplexed. He wondered what had happened to Herrando. He believed that The Shadow must have dispatched that villain before he attended to the others. He never dreamed that The Shadow had assumed the guise of Herrando!
Stacks Lodi did not see Lamont Cranston on board the ship. The reason was that Stacks Lodi seldom left his stateroom. He lay in hiding, hoping only that his share in the strange events had not been known by the dread avenger.
For Stacks Lodi had recognized The Shadow. He had terrible news to bear to Hub Rowley. There would be a new menace to confront the big shot’s schemes.
The Shadow, master mind opposed to crime, had shown his hand. Now, hidden and mysterious, he was permitting Stacks Lodi to carry back the word. Contemptuous of the criminals whom he opposed, he had spared this skulking underling.
The Southern Star plowed on through lessening seas. Each day was indicative of approaching calmness on the ocean. But when the steamship landed, there would be no quietude ashore. Then forces of evil would be met by the hand of The Shadow!
During this strange lull, Carter Boswick, entirely unconscious of the cause, still wondered why he had been attacked by unknown enemies. Little did he know of the turmoil in store for him.
He had been saved by The Shadow. Would that same hand strike again to rescue him when hidden danger came?
Only The Shadow could answer!
CHAPTER VII
THE HOME-COMING
WHEN the Southern Star docked at its North River pier, Carter Boswick was one of the first persons ashore. All the way up the river, the young man had imbibed the breeze of New York Harbor with a sense of new elation.
The sky line of Manhattan, replenished with huge buildings which had been erected during his absence, the familiarity of old views which Carter had not seen for years — these conspired to give the returning man an unexpected yearning for home.
Carter’s thoughts were of his father. All during the voyage from Havana be had read and reread the letter. His eagerness to greet his lone parent had reached the proportions of a mania. The details of customs examinations on the pier were an annoyance that Carter Boswick could scarcely undergo.
His luggage, each item labeled with a letter B, was subjected to an immediate examination, while Carter waited impatiently. Close beside him were passengers whose names began with C. One of those passengers — Lamont Cranston — was watching Boswick with careful gaze. Carter Boswick was not conscious of the surveillance.
While Carter Boswick waited, he felt a touch upon his shoulder. Turning, he faced a well-dressed man of medium height, whose features were firm and aristocratic. Carter had never seen this individual before. He was evidently some one who had come to meet the boat, for Carter did not recall him as a passenger.
“You are Carter Boswick?”
The man’s question was calm, but solemn. Carter nodded, wondering who the man might be.
“I am Farland Tracy. I have come to meet you.”
The name was momentarily unfamiliar. Then Carter recalled his father’s letter. The young man thrust his right hand forward.
“My father’s attorney,” he said.
“Yes,” responded Tracy, in an even tone. “I was your father’s attorney.”
As Carter blinked in slow understanding, Tracy’s hand dropped gently upon the young man’s shoulder. The lawyer’s eyes were sympathetic.
“Your father is dead, Carter,” he explained quietly. “He felt that the end was near the day he wrote his last letter to you. You received it? In Havana?”
Carter Boswick nodded.
“Your father lived scarcely more than twenty-four hours after he sent that letter,” resumed Tracy. “He was weary of life — incurably ill — a shell of himself as you had known him. He chose that you should not know until you had reached New York.”
It was with difficulty that Carter Boswick controlled his emotions. For years, his father had been scarcely more than a name to him. They had never quarreled, but there had never been a real understanding between them. Returning to America, Carter had sensed that his present maturity might enable him to meet his father on a basis of mutual friendship that had not existed in the past.
A surge of regret swept through the young man’s mind. He realized that he, while not a prodigal, was scarcely a deserving son. Farland Tracy sensed the mingling of emotions. He seemed to understand, and his kindly sympathy came to the fore. He beckoned toward his chauffeur, who had followed him on the pier.
“Take charge of Mr. Boswick’s luggage, Holland,” the lawyer ordered. “He and I will take a taxi to the Law Club. We are having luncheon there. Call for us about three thirty.”
HOLLAND was not the only person who heard the order. Lamont Cranston, apparently busy with a customs agent, had listened to Farland Tracy’s words.
A few minutes after Tracy and Carter Boswick had left the pier, Lamont Cranston followed. He stopped in a telephone booth and made a brief call. After that, he hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the Law Club.
There was a thin smile on Cranston’s lips as he alighted at the portals of the Law Club. He entered the building, and spoke to the attendant who inquired his business there.
“I am Mr. Cranston,” he said in a quiet tone.
“Yes, Mr. Cranston,” responded the attendants. “You may enter, sir. Judge Lamark just called, sir. He said that you were to be admitted.”
Cranston still smiled as he walked through the lobby of the exclusive club. His phone call from the pier had brought quick results. Judge Vanniman Lamark was a friend of Lamont Cranston. He had been pleased to hear from him, He had promised to arrange Cranston’s admittance to the club, and would try to meet his friend there at three o’clock.
In the grillroom of the club, Cranston discovered Farland Tracy and Carter Boswick ordering lunch in a booth at the side of the room. Unnoticed, Cranston slipped into the adjoining booth. He gave a quiet order to a waiter; then listened intently. His keen ears caught every word that passed between Farland Tracy and Carter Boswick.