“This man we are to meet,” suggested the would-be assassin. “Senor Carter Boswick — we shall see him aboard the Southern Star?”
“You may see him now,” responded Stacks.
“Where is he?” came the question.
“In the casino,” answered Stacks. “At the roulette table.”’
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
The man laughed in an even tone as he heard Stacks Lodi’s reply. With a twisting smile upon his dark lips, he asked another question.
“Would it disappoint you, senor.” he quizzed, “to have this senor Boswick stay always in Havana? Would you regret it if tonight—”
The man’s eyes were flashing with a murderous intention. Stacks Lodi smiled. The others buzzed their approval. Stacks shrugged his shoulders.
“Would you be kind enough,” continued the man who made the suggestion, “to point out to us this Senor Boswick? There are opportunities in this city of Havana. Perhaps we shall make use of one.
“Whether we succeed or fail, we shall board the Southern Star. Success will mean that New York would be preferable to Havana, despite the climate; failure would mean the necessity of a new opportunity aboard the steamship.”
“Come,” said Stacks.
He led his new hirelings along the promenade, past the hibiscus bush where the long stretch of blackness still manifested itself.
The brightly lighted door of the casino attracted the attention of the four walkers. None glanced back. They did not see the motion in the blackness beside the hibiscus. Nor did they see the strange, phantom-like shape that emerged from that patch of dark.
A being of the night was following the quartet along the paved promenade. The Shadow, strange shape of mystery, had overheard the negotiations. He, too, was interested in Stacks Lodi’s plans.
At the door of the gambling room, Stacks Lodi, with a low tone and an almost imperceptible motion of his hand, signaled out Carter Boswick. The young American now sported a large stack of winnings. He was preparing to leave the gambling hall.
The three minions of Stacks Lodi took their separate courses. They spread out, each with no apparent purpose. Stacks Lodi, idling by the door, was watching them.
He knew that when Carter Boswick left, these three would follow. Stacks had given them final instructions: they were to call for their steamship tickets at the Hotel Seville.
Stacks had not introduced the men to each other; but he knew their individual names. None of them were Cubans; all were South Americans.
Stacks made a final note of them:
Cassalta — he was the one with the traces of pockmarks on his face. Bolano — that man had busy eyebrows and protruding jaw. Herrando — he had been the spokesman with the murderous grin.
Now, as Stacks Lodi calmly watched them, these men appeared to be persons of leisure, their veneer of gentlemanly deportment completely covering their actual evilness.
STACKS became suddenly conscious that another man was standing beside him. He turned to see a tall individual with calm, cold-chiseled face and hawk-like nose.
He recognized Lamont Cranston — an American who had come down to Havana on the same plane with him.
Stacks smiled. He was sure that Cranston would not recognize Stacks Lodi.
The tall American was just beginning a chance conversation with a Cuban friend at the moment Stacks happened to turn. The gambler overheard them.
“You say that a boat sails for New York to-morrow?” Cranston was asking. “That surprises me. I did not see it on the sailing schedules.”
“It is a ship from Montevideo, senor,” the Cuban replied. “The Southern Star, of the Panorama Line. If you wish to return to New York by sea, you can probably engage passage aboard that boat.”
“Excellent,” decided Cranston. “I believe I shall do that. Thank you, senor, for the suggestion.”
Stacks Lodi gave no further consideration to the talk that he had overheard. He threw a final glance toward Lamont Cranston and turned away.
Had Stacks allowed his gaze to drop to the floor, he might have gained a momentary surprise. For the length of Lamont Cranston’s shadow was very strangely like that splotch of darkness. that had extended from the hibiscus bush in the garden.
That silhouette, alone, was the feature that marked Lamont Cranston as the hidden observer who had overheard the conversation between Stacks Lodi and the three South Americans. This man who called himself Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.
Keenly watching the roulette table where Carter Boswick had been playing, Stacks Lodi did not realize that he, himself, was under observation. All during his sojourns in the Gran Casino Nacional he had been under the surveillance of the eyes that were now watching him — the eyes of The Shadow!
Carter Boswick was leaving. His stakes had been changed to United States paper currency, and he was pleased because he had regained his original sum. He passed within two yards of Stacks Lodi, but did not even glance in the direction of the shrewd-faced gambler.
Stacks watched the trio of intended assassins follow. Cassalta, Bolano, and Herrando — these were the stalwarts who would work for him tonight. They disappeared in the same direction that Carter Boswick had taken. A triumphant smile curled upon the gambler’s lips.
Stacks Lodi did not notice that Lamont Cranston, too, had left the gambling hall. In fact, he had forgotten all about the man. Hence Stacks had no reason to suspect that trouble was brewing for his minions.
He did not know that the evil trio who were trailing Carter Boswick were themselves being followed. Outside the Gran Casino Nacional, a strange, uncanny figure had materialized the moment that the three had passed.
In a spot of seclusion, the tall figure of Lamont Cranston had stepped unobserved. Now, when it emerged, it was the man no longer. The Shadow, master of darkness, was the being who had taken up the trail of Stacks Lodi’s hired killers!
CHAPTER V
THE SHADOW’S MIGHT
HAD Carter Boswick been of a less adventurous temperament, he might have completely avoided danger on that evening in Havana.
His first impulse, upon leaving the Gran Casino Nacional was to return to the Southern Star. But as he hailed a waiting taxi, it suddenly occurred to him that this evening was yet young. He had no desire to join the other Americans in such a tourists’ resort as Sloppy Joe’s; but he did have a yearning to see the night life of old Havana.
Speaking in fluent Spanish, Carter quizzed the cab driver before entering the vehicle. The Cuban grinned and nodded.
The Americano would like to visit a place where tourists seldom went? Very well; he would be taken there. He would visit the old Barcelona Club — at one time the most exclusive private gambling place in Havana — now a spot where revolutionary plots were hatched.
Scarcely had the taxi drawn away before a man stepped into view and beckoned to two others who were a short distance away. Herrando was summoning Cassalta and Bolano.
In a few quick words, he explained what he had heard — the destination chosen by Carter Boswick. Gleaming smiles greeted the revelation. Calling another cab, the three South Americans entered and gave instructions to be driven to the Barcelona Club, in the old city. No one was in sight when Herrando gave the order, but the words were loud enough to be heard in the darkness that lurked beyond the pavement where the cab had stopped.
Meanwhile, Carter Boswick, in the cab ahead, was finding his ride most intriguing. After rolling along broad boulevards, the taxi entered an area of crooked, winding streets, among picturesque buildings that had stood here for years — some, perhaps, for centuries.