Yet those names actually held a peculiar significance. The first was the genuine name of a man of crime; the second, the assumed identity of one who warred against the denizens of crookdom, from small to large.
Stacks Lodi was Havana hound; to-morrow, his plane was sailing. Aboard the same ship — unknown and unrecognized by Hub Rowley’s agent — would he the one personage whom all the underworld feared.
The Shadow, like Stacks Lodi, was traveling to Havana!
CHAPTER IV
IN HAVANA
STACKS LODI, versatile minion of Hub Rowley, was a man of chameleon qualities. His ability to change his physical appearance was remarkable, despite its limitations; but his great aptitude was the facility with which he fitted himself into any environment.
During the period that he had gained a profitable living through his gambling activities aboard transatlantic liners, Stacks had frequently resorted to methods of semidisguise which had served him well until all of his various artifices had become known.
After that, he had settled down to the routine existence of a faro dealer in gambling joints secretly controlled by Hub Rowley. The big shot had finally promoted Stacks to the role of lieutenant in charge of mobsmen. Stacks had served as such when he had been conducting activities at the home of Houston Boswick.
Now, as ambassador of hidden crime, Stacks had been dispatched on a new mission which had begun with the airplane flight from New York to Havana. At the time of his departure, Stacks had boasted a short, flat mustache across his upper lip. From the hour that he had left Hub’s apartment, Stacks had paid particular attention to that adornment.
Perhaps the effect of tropical climate had helped the quick growth of hair upon the gambler’s upper lip. Perhaps the judicious use of dark dye and wax were chiefly responsible; whatever the case might have been, Stacks Lodi, by the time he had been three days in Havana, was possessed of a conspicuous mustache with pointed ends.
Now, as he stood within the portals of the magnificent Gran Casino Nacional, Stacks had the appearance of a suave, sophisticated habitue of palatial gambling halls.
His keen, intuitive eye was watching the brilliant throng which crowded about the whirling roulette wheels. There, Stacks was observing people, not the game; although any who noticed him would have fancied that he was most interested in the way the croupiers deftly raked in the stacks of coins that lay upon the gaming tables.
Stacks Lodi had spent most of his time in the casino. He had come there because the place was the natural gathering point of all adventurous persons who visited Havana.
With the cool, practiced eye of the professional gambler, Stacks had been looking for men whose faces were no more than masks that hid the cunning brains of criminals. He had not only discovered three such individuals; he had made the acquaintance of the trio.
Those three were in the Gran Casino Nacional tonight. But they were not under Stacks Lodi’s surveillance for the present. The shrewd, mustached observer had found a new interest.
He was watching a small group of Americans who were enjoying their roulette. These were passengers who had come ashore from the steamship Southern Star, which had docked in Havana that afternoon.
Bound from Montevideo to New York, the Southern Star, delayed by a heavy equatorial storm, was slated to remain in Havana for only twenty-four hours. The ship would sail to-morrow afternoon. Between now and then, Stacks Lodi planned nefarious action.
ONE man among the Americans from the Southern Star was the individual whom Stacks Lodi sought. This man, tall, vigorous, and youthful, possessed the qualities of a powerful athlete.
His face was well molded, and showed a carefree disposition, backed by self-control. His dark-blue eyes and light-brown hair rendered him conspicuous among his companions. Stacks had heard the young man’s name spoken by two of those who were with him. He knew that this was Carter Boswick.
“Hey, Carter” — one of the crowd was addressing the young man now — “we’re going to skid out of here. We’re running down to Sloppy Joe’s bar. Coming along?”
Carter Boswick smiled and shook his head as he placed a stack of money upon the roulette table.
“I’ll be here a while,” he remarked. “I’m staking three hundred and fifty dollars just to see how I make out. It’s half gone now; if I get it back or lose it, I quit. I’ll see you fellow’s on the boat.”
Three minutes later, Carter Boswick was deserted by his friends.
Completely engaged by the play at the roulette table, the young man was due to remain there for some time at least. This was the very opportunity that Stacks had awaited.
Strolling through the room, the gambler stopped three times. On each occasion, he dropped a chance remark in the ear of a different man. Then, continuing his stroll, Stacks reached the outside garden, and followed the promenade that circled about the beautiful pond, with its central fountain of dancing bacchantes.
Here, at an appointed spot, Stacks found three men awaiting him. All were garbed in evening clothes — the same attire which Stacks Lodi wore.
Although they had no more than a speaking acquaintance with each other, these men possessed much in common. They were adventurers all, and Stacks Lodi had made no hazardous guess when he had judged them as men to whom crime was not foreign.
“Buenos noches,” purred Stacks Lodi, speaking in smooth Spanish. “I have something to engage your attention, senores. It will bring money more swiftly than a good turn of the roulette wheel.”
Sparkling eyes and crafty glances assured Stacks that his listeners were interested.
“To-morrow,” resumed the gambler, “the steamship Southern Star sails for New York. I shall be aboard that vessel. I am quite willing to engage first-class passage for three gentlemen such as yourselves. It will be a delightful trip—”
Stacks paused to light a cigarette. His cunning face showed above the flame of the match. The listening men detected the knowing smile that curled the lips below the black, pointed moustache.
“There will be another person aboard,” continued Stacks, as though changing the subject. “Senor Carter Boswick is his name. An Americano booked through from Montevideo.
“I do not care to make his acquaintance, senores, but I have no objection to my friends doing so. Much comes from chance acquaintance. I do not object to seeing Senor Boswick go aboard the Southern Star to-morrow afternoon but I would feel a keen regret should I see him leaving the same boat at New York.”
The innuendo was plain. The hearers knew it. They exchanged cunning glances. Then one spoke in a low tone.
“What is your offer, Senor?”
STACKS was thoughtful. His eyes suddenly wandered as he fancied that he saw a slight motion beside a hibiscus bush a dozen feet away. A second glance reassured him. He was positive that no one could be in the vicinity.
A long stretch of black shadow extended from the bush, and reached across the promenade to Stacks Lodi’s feet. But the gambler thought nothing of that phenomenon. Other bushes in the luxuriant garden cast shadows also.
“Two thousand dollars to each of my friends,” remarked Stacks quietly. “Two thousand dollars payable immediately after—”
The questioner nodded. Another man uttered a short ejaculation beneath his breath:
“Two thousand dollars! Four thousand pesos!”
This expression of the sum in terms of South American currency was gratifying to Stacks Lodi. He was sure that his offer would he accepted. The conjecture proved correct.
“I am ready, senor,” announced one of the trio.
The others followed the acceptance.
Stacks Lodi smiled. He knew now that these men were polished assassins — a fact that he had already discerned. Only the arrangements for passage remained. Stacks was about to explain this detail when one of his hirelings put forth a question.