Accustomed to life in South America, familiar with the cities of Buenos Aires and Montevideo, Carter Boswick, with his knowledge of Spanish, had no qualms whatever about visiting a district so little frequented by Americans. When his cab pulled up before an archway that was blocked by an iron-grilled gate, Carter Boswick felt the intriguing appeal of the unusual.
The cab driver spoke to a man who was standing by the gate. He was explaining that this Americano wished to enter. Carter followed with a few words of his own. The gate opened, and he walked through the archway into a patio with a little fountain in the center.
Passing beyond the fountain, Carter ascended a flight of steps and came to a large room that once must have been the chief gaming hall of the club. It was surrounded with small, uncurtained booths; and the center portion of the floor had scattered tables. The place had been changed into a restaurant.
Carter took his seat at one of these tables and surveyed the motley persons assembled there. Grimy, sordid faces showed members of Havana’s underworld; but mingled with them were persons of a higher social plane.
Carter noted that the more respectable people seemed to segregate themselves in the little booths at the sides. He remembered what the cab driver had said about revolutionary activities.
EVIDENTLY this place was tolerated because it enabled the police to keep tabs on the meetings of persons who were under ban. Carter knew that Cuba was a republic which seethed with an undercurrent of repressed animosity toward the existing administration. He imagined that some of the persons here were government spies.
His own experience of intrigues and counter-plots which he had found existing in Buenos Aires and Montevideo enabled him to identify this former club immediately.
Here, Carter felt, one sat just above the crater of a quieted volcano. One untoward incident — a cry of revolution — an accusation of a police spy — an unexpected brawl — such would suffice to create tumult.
Carter noted a huge stairway at the side of the room. It started at one corner, ran upward diagonally along the wall, and terminated in a balcony that made three sides of a square. He could see little doorways up there; and he sensed that they marked the entrances of private dining rooms or gambling apartments.
While Carter was watching, a Spaniard of dignified appearance entered and went up the stairs. A few moments later, a handful of ruffians came in and scattered themselves about at different tables.
Carter noticed that the gentleman entered one of the upstairs rooms. He caught a few words in Spanish uttered at another table. They gave him an inkling. This man was a former senator, no longer in political favor. His purpose here might be a secret meeting; these ruffians were, in all likelihood, a bodyguard.
Interested in the buzz that passed through the room, Carter did not observe the three men who entered and sidled over toward his table. They were the trio sent by Stacks Lodi.
With mutual design, they reached a table only a short distance from where Carter was sitting, but behind his back.
The room was quieting when one of these men arose. It was Herrando, the one who had appointed himself a leader. Leering as he stared at Carter’s back, the man caught the attention of various persons in the place.
Carter, unaware of Herrando’s presence, saw the scattered ruffians stare suspiciously in his direction. The next moment, he was seized roughly by the shoulder, and loud words of accusation were hissed in his ear.
“Americano! Bah!” Herrando’s words came in a venomous voice. “You are a traitor! You have come here to spy—”
Like a flash, Carter was on his feet. He swung a swift punch in Herrando’s direction, and sent the man sprawling. Cassalta and Bolano were leaping forward.
In the gloomy light of the big hall, Carter could not distinguish their faces — he knew only that they were enemies. Plucking up the light table beside him, he flung it against the pair, and saw the two men sprawl backward. Then, with a mad rush, he ran toward the door, seeking escape.
Escape was not so easy. Carter’s quick response had done exactly what Herrando had hoped. It had excited wild alarm, and had apparently proven the truth of the accusation.
The scattered ruffians were on their feet, ready to block the flight of this false Americano. A spark of flame had been set to the powder barrel of lurking suspicion.
A machete gleamed as one of Havana’s mobsmen leaped forward to end Carter Boswick’s dash. The American side-stepped the ruffian’s swing, and planted a swift blow upon the Cuban’s cheek. The machete flew across the floor; the man sprawled and started to draw a revolver from his belt.
Seeing his intention, Carter fell upon him. The action was a wise one. Just as Carter yanked the gun from the downed man’s grasp, other revolvers flashed. Loud cries sounded, and startled men came from the booths to join the attack in which Carter Boswick was the focal point.
Rising, Carter pointed the revolver and fired toward a ruffian who was aiming at him. The shot went wide. With a snarl, the man moved his finger against the trigger.
But the report which followed did not come from the Cuban’s gun. Instead, it issued from the door that led to the patio. It was the terrific roar of an automatic.
The Cuban sprawled upon the floor, and all the others turned quickly to greet the source of the unexpected attack.
Just within the doorway stood a tall figure in black. A sinister form, garbed in flowing black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat, The Shadow had arrived in time to save the doomed American!
Each hand, covered with a thin black glove, held a powerful automatic. Sharp, burning eyes glowed beneath the brim of the slouch hat. The Shadow’s perfect aim had crippled Carter Boswick’s antagonist.
Realizing that aid had come, Carter dropped almost to the floor. Crouching, he headed for the nearest corner.
The Shadow had diverted the attack. Fiendish cries arose as the ruffians and others of their ilk turned toward the invader. Revolvers flashed and scattered shots broke forth.
The reports of The Shadow’s automatics sounded above the din. Stabs of flame burst from the huge .45s. Hostile weapons seemed useless. Bullets struck the wall beside The Shadow, but his tall form seemed to weave back and forth with uncanny precision.
The hasty aimers had no luck; those who were more deliberate never gained the chance they sought. For The Shadow’s unerring guns delivered their shots at the ruffians who were coolly seeking to slay him.
Gun arms dropped as The Shadow’s bullets found them. Evil-faced killers staggered and dropped to the floor before the thunder of The Shadow’s wrath.
The briefness of the fight was surprising. The Shadow was aiming to wound, not to kill; and that very policy brought quick results. The cries of the crippled men were appalling to their comrades.
There were doors in the wall away from the spot where The Shadow stood. Realizing the power that lurked in The Shadow’s weapons, some of the fighters began a mad dash for safety.
The flight stimulated a general effort toward escape. Many of the denizens of this place were fearful of consequences, should they be discovered here.
Scurrying fugitives headed for the path that led away from this danger zone. The Shadow’s guns spoke only at intervals, when some more daring ruffian would turn in an effort to shoot him down.
Suddenly, the black-gloved fingers opened. The automatics, their bullets spent, clattered to the floor. In a twinkling, those hands, reaching beneath the folds of the black cloak, produced another brace of guns.
The gesture was sufficient. With wild cries, the last of the fugitives hurried through the doorways, and did not return.
Three men, however, had avoided The Shadow’s shots with fell design. Those three were Stacks Lodi’s men. Balked in their first attack on Carter Boswick, the trio had left the American in the hands of the ruffians.