Chain Of Death

CHAPTER XVIII OUTSIDE THE HARBOR

IT was nearing midnight. The Steamship Mauritius had passed the lower harbor, outward bound. The liner was ploughing at a slow but steady pace as it pushed through the calm sea near the seven-mile limit.

The Mauritius was an antiquated tub that had led the ways back in the late nineties. A fine ship in its day, the old boat had stood the test of time. Renovated and equipped with new motors, it still plied between New York and Liverpool.

Most of the passengers were men. The total list was less than two hundred. The low rates offered on this slow liner were attractive to persons who valued money more than time. The Mauritius was a one-class ship; the logical meeting place for its male passengers was the smoking salon.

A young man was seated in this remodeled section of the ship. He was one of a few dozen who had chosen not to remain on deck. As he read a book, this clean-cut chap occasionally surveyed the occupants of the salon, by directing well-gauged glances over the top of his book.

This passenger was Harry Vincent. An agent of The Shadow, Harry Vincent had received new instructions through Rutledge Mann. These had included ticket and stateroom reservation on the Mauritius.

Harry knew that The Shadow was also aboard. His chief was engaged in an important search. It was Harry’s task to aid. Here, in the smoking room, the agent had opportunity for observing various passengers.

Mann had come to the boat to see Harry off. He had passed the agent an envelope which Mann had received at his club, shortly before sailing time. This had given Harry new information. He was to watch all foreigners other than Englishmen.

This was not a difficult task. Harry had already noted that the majority of the passengers in the smoking salon were either English or American. He saw two men whom he took for Swedes or Norwegians; he observed another who might be a Frenchman.

The latter had caught Harry’s final attention. The man was puffing at a cigarette; it was the third that he had lighted in ten minutes. He had paid one visit to the bar; at present, he was seated at a card table in the corner, playing solitaire.

As Harry continued his intermittent vigil, he saw the Frenchman pack the cards in their case. Thrusting the case into a space between the table and the wall of the salon, the man walked over and introduced himself to three Americans who were looking for a fourth player in a game of bridge.

Harry heard the man introduce himself as Raoul Darchonne. The Americans clapped him on the back and congratulated him upon his remarkable moniker. They called him “Monsieur” and the Frenchman smiled beneath his pointed mustache. Harry observed at once that the man spoke perfect English and understood the American conception of a joke.

The bridge game began. Harry watched it occasionally, but he also kept looking toward the door of the smoking salon. He saw an American enter. The man was a heavy, bluff-faced fellow who had the build of a football coach. This man looked about the salon in a casual way. He finally strolled over to the table where the Frenchman had been playing solitaire.

There, he picked up the pack that he found between table and wall. He deliberately opened the case and started to deal cards one by one. A dozen cards fell face up, in rotation; with a shrug of his shoulders, the big fellow gathered up the pack, replaced it in its case and tossed the whole on the table. He arose and strolled from the smoking salon.

Harry Vincent pondered. He had been instructed to watch for contact between strangers, particularly any such action that seemed unusual. To Harry, the episode of the card case appeared more important than the Frenchman’s act of joining the bridge game.

The card players had finished a hand. One of the Americans was calling for drinks. No steward was close by; the American arose and waved the others along with him to the bar. Raoul Darchonne followed.

This was Harry’s opportunity. Dropping his book, The Shadow’s agent arose and moved toward the table where the card case lay in view. He picked up the desired object; then turned and went out on the deck.

Reaching a companionway, Harry descended. He arrived at his own stateroom. He entered, drew a fountain pen from his pocket and inscribed a brief note that he put in an envelope. He left this with the card case on the writing table. When Harry left the stateroom to go up to the smoking cabin, he did not lock the door.

This would be a signal to The Shadow. That door, unlocked, was the word that Harry had left a message. This was in accordance with the final instructions that Harry had received from Mann.

FIVE scant minutes passed after Harry had left his cabin. A figure appeared in the passage. It was The Shadow, garbed as an ordinary passenger. The Shadow opened the door and entered Harry’s room.

A single light was burning on the table where the card case lay. The Shadow seemed a vague shape as he approached. His white hands showed beneath the light; the gem on his left third finger gleamed with sparkling flashes.

The Shadow opened Harry’s note. He read a terse, coded message that explained what had happened in the smoking salon. The writing faded; The Shadow let the blank paper slide into a wastebasket. His fingers opened the card case.

Harry had described the exact actions of the heavy-built American. The Shadow knew that the cards had been gathered as they had been dealt, one by one, The Shadow let the pasteboards fall faces up upon the table.

Ten of diamonds; five of spades; six of hearts; queen of clubs; five of clubs; queen of diamonds—

The Shadow stopped, holding the next card face up. It was a black card; the duplicate of one that he had already dealt. In his hand, The Shadow was clutching a second five of spades!

The thrumming pound of the liner’s engines was the dull sound that formed an interlude while The Shadow’s hands remained motionless. Then came a soft, whispered laugh as The Shadow dropped the duplicate card upon the table.

While his left hand held the pack, The Shadow’s right produced a pen and wrote on paper with a bluish ink. The Shadow had discerned the reason for this extra card in the pack.

One agent of crime had arranged to pass word to the other. That message could be but one thing — the name of the man aboard this ship whose cabin held its million dollars worth of paintings.

Each suit in the pack of cards consisted of thirteen values. Inasmuch as there were twenty-six letters in the alphabet, it was plain to The Shadow that one color — say blacks — would give letters from A to M inclusive; while the other color would tell letters from N to Z.

Taking the blacks as the first thirteen, the reds as the last, The Shadow transcribed the letters as he read them. Ten of diamonds, W; five of spades, E; six of hearts, S; queen of clubs, L; five of clubs, E; queen of diamonds, Y.

The cards spelled the name Wesley. The duplicate five of spades was an E, starting the second name. The Shadow continued the deal; after the five of clubs came the queen of spades, the jack of spades, the nine of clubs, the ace of hearts.

The last name was Elkin. The Shadow knew the identity of the man whose life was at stake. Skulking crooks were laying low; The Shadow had not encountered them in his extended journey through the ship. They would soon be on the move; for they knew their quarry. The Frenchman, Raoul Darchonne, was the man who had sent the message along the chain. The husky American was another man of crime; the one who had agreed to follow Darchonne’s tip.

The Shadow moved from the stateroom. He ascended a flight of deserted stairs and stopped outside the closed window of the purser’s office. The passenger list had been posted. The Shadow saw it behind a glass frame. He spied the name of Wesley Elkin. The stateroom number was 128.

The Shadow descended the steps and arrived at Harry’s cabin. From beneath a berth, he drew out a flat black bag. He opened it; the folds of the black cloak came into view. Then the slouch hat; donning the garments, The Shadow plucked a brace of automatics from the bag.

UP in the smoking salon, Harry Vincent had picked up his book. He read the volume a while; then laid it down and strolled toward the deck. Raoul Darchonne followed him with a steady gaze. The Frenchman had suddenly lost interest in the game of bridge.

Prepared to establish an alibi, while others did their work, this crook had found a task for himself. Coming back from the bar, he had noted the absence of the card case. He had seen Harry Vincent return to the chair where the book was lying.

Harry Vincent was on his way to his cabin, to find if his message had been delivered. Raoul Darchonne, excusing himself from the game, arose and started on Harry’s trail. A conflict between them was impending.

For The Shadow, at that moment, was gliding from the door of Harry’s stateroom. Armed for combat, the black-garbed master was starting toward the spot where danger lurked. His goal lay on the opposite side of the ship.

Aft — the walls of the engine room, one deck below on the starboard side of the liner — such was the location of stateroom 128. Past the stairway, then to a bulkhead beyond; there The Shadow would reach the companion way that led to the lower deck.

Like a living phantom, The Shadow reached the bulkhead. He stopped as he neared a darkened spot. Enshrouded in gloom, The Shadow turned to peer back along the path that he had followed.

A figure appeared beyond the stairway. It was Harry Vincent, returning to his cabin. The Shadow watched, guided by some keen intuition. A crouching man came into view, following Harry Vincent’s path.

One glimpse of the sallow, mustached face told The Shadow that this must be the Frenchman whom Harry had named as Raoul Darchonne. The crafty crook was on the trail of The Shadow’s agent.

A shape emerged from the blackness by the bulkhead. Though time pressed, though crime was in the making, The Shadow was returning toward Harry’s stateroom. The life of his agent was at stake. The menace of Raoul Darchonne must be eliminated before The Shadow could proceed to stateroom 128.