The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER II THE ROBBERY

GRAY streaks of dawn were bringing a feeble glow to the horizon beyond the stern of the Patagonia. The plodding ship formed a dim bulk in the center of a placid sea — a moving object of blackness marked with separated spots of twinkling lights that glowed through portholes.

The size of the ship and the presence of those lights rendered the Patagonia visible to eyes that were watching more than a mile away; yet the watchers, themselves, were unseen by any eyes aboard the liner. A low, sleek-lined motor boat, its decks awash, and its smooth engines muffled, was keeping pace with the transatlantic ship.

The mystery boat had crept up under cover of darkness. As obscure as a derelict in the sea, it had followed the Patagonia for twenty miles, using those glimmering lights as a moving beacon.

Still, the placidity of the scene had not altered. But with daylight approaching, the lowlying boat would soon become visible.

The masts and superstructure of the Patagonia were now forming blackened silhouettes against the lightened sky. Suddenly, a change took place in the appearance of the liner; and with that alteration, the pursuing motor boat veered quickly and pointed its sharp nose toward the Patagonia.

A peculiar jet of white appeared near the stern of the liner; thin filmy puffs became clouds of smoke. Within a few seconds, the rear of the steamship was enveloped in thick white vapor that issued through portholes and from cabinways.

Immediately visible to the watchers a mile away, the effect of this strange happening became known to those on the Patagonia a minute or two later.

It came as a startling surprise to Clyde Burke, one of the few passengers who was awake. Lounging in the smoking room, watching the card game that was still in progress, Clyde heard the sudden clang of bells and the jolt in the liner’s easy speed that heralded the fact that something was amiss.

Restraining his eagerness, Clyde watched the men at the table. He saw them glance at one another in feigned consternation; then, with one accord, they pushed their chips aside and started for the deck.

Clyde followed.

MEN were dashing along the deck toward the stern of the ship. Clyde could see the whirl of smoke pouring from that direction. His first belief was that the ship had taken fire; that the crew of the Patagonia was faced with the greatest danger that can be encountered at sea.

Then, as the deck was cleared of running seamen, Clyde noticed that the men from the smoking room were heading in the opposite direction. In a flash, he realized what had happened.

The ship was not on fire — although the crew believed it to be. Some persons — confederates of those in the smoking room — had loosed smoke bombs at the stern of the ship. They had produced the perfect effect of smoldering flames coming suddenly to life. The semblance of a terrific holocaust had brought all hands to aid.

Four men were rushing forward to the part of the ship that the crew had deserted — their goal the purser’s office on the deck below! There, protected in a vault, were the millions in gold!

Seeing the invaders turn into a companionway, Clyde followed and ran beyond the spot where they had left the deck. He knew that they were going down the inner stairway, so he chose the outer steps that led from deck to deck. A minute later, he found himself outside the companionway on the deck below. There, crouching by the rail, Clyde stared inward.

The four invaders had reached the purser’s office. Clyde could see them accosting the man in uniform. The ship’s officer was suddenly thrust aside, and the men plunged into the office. At the same moment, other faces appeared at the opposite companionway.

Fully a dozen men were engaged in the attack. Those who had loosed the smoke bombs had hurried forward and waited in hiding until most of the crew had scurried past toward the stern.

A pistol shot sounded within the purser’s office. Other shots fired. The uniformed man came tumbling headlong and sprawled motionless upon the floor. His sudden attempt to resist the invaders had brought him death.

Where was The Shadow?

Clyde Burke had been confident that in some way his chief would have acted to thwart this scheme. Clyde’s appointed task had been to warn; then to await The Shadow’s bidding. In desperation, Clyde turned his gaze across the rail, and a sudden exultation swept over him.

Speeding noiselessly toward the side of the ship was a long, sharp-prowed motor boat that seemed like a monster of the deep. It was swinging to the side of the Patagonia, its lowlying deck scarcely visible in the dark water.

Leaning over the rail, Clyde signaled with his arms. He was sure that rescuers had come. He fancied that he saw an answering wave from the dark cockpit of the boat as it drew alongside the liner.

Then Clyde turned as he heard footsteps behind him. A dark-faced man rushed through the companionway and sprang to the rail, ten feet away. So intent was this arrival that he did not notice Clyde Burke’s presence. Watching, Clyde saw the man signal to the boat below. He heard a shrill whistle and an answering response from beneath.

THE man turned away from the rail and saw Clyde Burke standing by. In that instant, Clyde knew the truth. The motor boat below had not brought The Shadow. Instead, it was manned by men who were in league with those who had attacked the purser’s office!

Those in the motor boat had taken Clyde for a friend; the man on the deck, however, recognized him as an enemy. A revolver gleamed as the swarthy man leaped forward.

Clyde, however, was already in action. In his pocket was an automatic; but it was too late to reach for the pistol. Instead, Clyde leaped forward and swung a staggering punch to his opponent’s face.

The man went down sidewise from the blow, and Clyde fell upon him. He wrested the revolver from his enemy’s grasp, hurled the man along the deck, and made a mad dash toward the companionway that led to the purser’s office.

Boom!

The sullen sound of a muffled explosion made the deck tremble. Men burst forth from the companionway. They had blown the vault in the purser’s office.

Clyde Burke stopped short, face to face with half a dozen ruffians. The nearest raised a revolver, but Clyde fired before the man could shoot. The enemy went down, and Clyde, knowing that he could not stand against the others, made a mad scramble along the deck, reaching the safety of a stateroom door just as avenging shots swept the deck behind him.

Had these opponents made a mass attack, they could have overpowered Clyde in his temporary entrenchment. Instead, they remained at the companionway, firing pot shots. Along the deck came members of the crew, brought hither by the sound of the explosion in the purser’s office.

Revolver shots burst forth. Those defending the doorway were forced back into safety. The armed crew swept on. Clyde, accepted as an ally, joined them. They reached the entrance from which the enemy had withdrawn.

The scene was deserted; except at the head of the stairway, where three determined men opened a devastating fire that dropped half a dozen in the rescuing crew.

For a moment, Clyde Burke thought that the men of the Patagonia had arrived in time to thwart the attempt on the gold. But as the men at the head of the stairs fled downward, and the crew members reached the door of the purser’s office, the empty interior of the blown vault told the true story of the daring crime!

“The gold! The gold!” cried Clyde, turning to the men beside him. “They’re carrying it below! To the boat—”

His revelation came to a sudden end. Clyde’s words had been heard by the men withdrawing down the stairs. A daring sniper came suddenly into view and fired. Clyde toppled as a bullet struck his shoulder.

The man who had fired was pressing the trigger for a more certain shot to end the life of the informer; but the one shot was his last. Half a dozen of the crew responded to his bold attack. The man fell, riddled by bullets, and rolled down the stairway.

Men were bending over Clyde Burke. Others were pursuing the enemy who had retreated down the stairway. Clyde was gasping, trying to explain what he knew. He realized that he, alone, had seen the approach of the motor boat along the side.

“They — they’ve got the gold,” blurted Clyde. “Down — down through the ship — little boat — at the side—”

With an effort, he staggered to his feet and broke toward the doorway to the deck. The other men hurried after him. Clyde fell against the rail, and pointed downward with his uninjured arm. Below lay the little boat, now clearly outlined. White faces were staring upward from the cockpit.

BEFORE Clyde’s companions could act, they saw a sheet of metal swing outward from the side of the Patagonia. A coal hatch had been opened from within. A long, flat sack swung out, and hands came up to receive it.

A gold sack!

A horde of ruffians had carried the gold below, while their companions had blocked the rear. Members of the crew had been bribed to aid them. The gold was going out through this opening into the waiting speed boat!

The men beside Clyde began to fire. Their scattered shots ended quickly. Clyde fell back with them as the rattle of a machine gun sounded from the motor boat below. With quick staccato, bullets drilled the side of the rail where the crew had been.

Firing sounded from below decks. Seeing that attack was useless from this spot, Clyde’s companions rushed to the nearest companionway. Others were coming up to take care of the wounded. Propped against a stateroom door, Clyde listened to the sound of battle.

The gold thieves had arranged a path straight to the hold. They had carried the stolen metal in relays, protected by a handful of gun wielders. Below decks, they were holding back the crew while they loaded the sacks of gold into the motor boat.

The machine gun on that lowlying vessel gave the boat adequate protection. The gun was rattling now, preventing men from approaching the rails of the Patagonia.

As two men helped Clyde Burke to his feet, a wild, triumphant shout came from below. Uttered by a score of voices, it meant only that the crew had overpowered the rear guard that was holding them back. The men of the Patagonia had proven themselves too strong for the few who resisted them.

But amid that shout came a new sound — the sudden thrumming of the motor boat. The machine gun gave a last rattle as the flight began.

The men who were helping Clyde turned toward the rail. With them, Clyde saw events below.

The last sack of gold had been tossed into the waiting boat. With the signal to clear, the speedy vessel was swinging away from the side of the big ship.

In their eagerness for a quick getaway, the men who had received the gold were giving no more heed to the men who had made the raid upon the treasure vault of the Patagonia. Wild screams arose as the men who had tossed down the gold leaped for the motor boat to escape the attack of the crew that was breaking into the hold.

Not one of these desperate crooks reached his objective. The few who sprang forward found themselves precipitated into the sea. The others paused on the brink, shouting imprecations to the traitors who had abandoned them.

Turning, they opened fire upon the invading crew. Fighting to the end, their bullet-riddled bodies toppled and fell splashing into the ocean.

Seamen of the Patagonia reached the open hold and fired vainly at the departing motor boat. The cause was hopeless. Churning through the water, its submerged prow plowing up the swell, the strange boat was beyond recall. A lowlying streak speeding rapidly toward the horizon, it had departed with its cargo of stolen wealth.

PROPPED in his berth a few hours later, Clyde Burke heard further details. Clyde was one of the heroes of the fray — the only passenger who had joined the crew in the conflict against the raiders. His explanation of how he had wrested the revolver from an attacker was justification for the weapon in his possession.

A room steward gave Clyde final information. Nearly twenty men had been identified as members or allies of the raiding band. Of these, only five — three traitors in the ship’s crew — had survived. They were being held for piracy.

Each man had admitted that he had been paid to join in the plot; but all disclaimed knowledge of the men in the mystery boat. The captured wretches seemed only too eager to seek vengeance thrust upon those who had deserted them; but they were totally in ignorance of the identity of the men who had engineered the plot.

Then came a bit of news that was of special significance to Clyde. Among the slain raiders had been found the body of the radio operator. The man had deserted his post with the opening of the attack. He, like the others, had expected to escape in the boat that had taken the gold.

Before leaving the wireless room, the operator had put the equipment out of commission. At present, the Patagonia was steaming toward New York with no means of informing the world of what had taken place aboard!

Startling though that information was, the news explained more to Clyde Burke. He realized that the traitorous operator had been on duty when he had taken his radiogram to the wireless room.

The message to The Shadow had not been sent!

Somewhere, out on the broad expanse of slowly heaving blue that Clyde could see from his cabin porthole, was a swift, lowlying boat speeding toward a spot of safety with a fortune in stolen gold. The lives of many men had been sacrificed to gain that wealth.

Had Clyde’s message reached The Shadow, this crime could have been frustrated. From now on, Clyde knew, The Shadow’s task would be to regain the stolen gold and bring doom to the plotters who had let death rule in their thirst for wealth.