The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER XX ON THE YACHT

THE yacht Aquamarine was churning steadily through a glassy sea. A hundred miles out from shore, its northeasterly course was carrying it through cool and pleasant areas. This night — the first at sea — had gained a slight chill, and the passengers had retired, with the exception of two.

These were Anthony Hargreaves, the host aboard the yacht, and Maurice Traymer, the New York society man. They, alone of all the passengers, had remained on deck, chiefly at Traymer’s suggestion.

“You sent your radiogram?” questioned Hargreaves genially, as they strolled the deck.

“Yes,” responded Traymer. “Thanks, old chap.”

A member of the crew shambled past, giving a quick salute to Hargreaves. The millionaire responded with a wave of his hand. He did not observe the man closely; hence he did not see the slight signal with which Traymer replied.

The same procedure occurred with another member of the crew. Nearing the bow of the ship, Traymer suggested that they go to the port side. There, Traymer lingered by the rail, and Hargreaves, always affable, lingered beside him.

“All on board seem to be enjoying themselves,” observed Hargreaves. “I’m certainly glad that Lamont Cranston came along. He is a very prominent man.”

“I didn’t notice him tonight,” said Traymer. “Where was he?”

“He retired early,” said Hargreaves. “A delightful chap, Cranston. Excused himself, saying that sea air always made him sleepy.”

The pair walked a few paces along the deck, and paused again by the rail. A light above showed their shadows upon the deck. It also revealed a long, silhouetted blotch that lay between the other two.

That sign represented the presence of a third person — yet only two were visible. No human eye could have discerned the tall, cloaked figure that stood back from the rail, hearing every word that was uttered by Hargreaves and Traymer.

More members of the crew were passing by. To each, Traymer gave a secret sign which escaped the notice of Anthony Hargreaves. The millionaire simply observed that a considerable number of men were on hand, and he commented proudly upon the fact.

“Some yachts are undermanned,” he told Traymer. “That’s not the case with me. I hired extra members for the crew — and did it on short notice, too. Enough men — that’s my motto. It’s good in case of emergency.”

A short while later, Hargreaves made another comment — one which made Traymer start; then smile.

“We’re heading along the steamship lane,” said the millionaire. “Guess we’re pretty near the spot where they pulled that gold robbery on the Patagonia. Say! That was nervy, wasn’t it? Wonder how they got away with it?”

“Any one could be nervy for two million,” responded Traymer, in an indifferent tone.

“That’s right,” admitted Hargreaves. “But it was piracy! I’m glad we’ve got no bullion on this yacht. Those same fellows might bob up to take it away from us!”

TRAYMER was watching over the side. The lights of the Aquamarine reflected on the water. Not far off, Traymer fancied that he could distinguish a black object keeping pace with the yacht. He glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch, and noted that it was nearly half past one.

From then on, Traymer’s glances were repeated. He listened while Hargreaves talked. Just as the watch indicated one thirty, Traymer decided to light a cigarette. He drew a match from his pocket, and struck it on the rail. The match sputtered and sent off fizzing shots of light like a firework sparkler.

“Whew!” exclaimed Hargreaves. “That match must have been made in a cannon-cracker factory. Do you have any more ammunition like it?”

“Yes,” said Traymer quietly. “I’ll produce it. By the way, Hargreaves, did you hear anything from Professor Sheldon before we left?”

“Yes,” said Hargreaves. “He dropped me a note and wished us bon voyage. A fine fellow, the professor. He likes me immensely.”

“I disagree with you,” declared Traymer.

As he spoke, Traymer lighted another match. It sputtered like the first.

“Don’t use any more of that ammunition,” laughed Hargreaves. “But what about the professor?” The millionaire’s tone became incredulous. “You say he doesn’t like me?”

“No, Hargreaves,” said Traymer. “He knows you for what you are — man of attained wealth. He prefers people like myself — those who are born among the elite — and he also likes those who remain where they belong. You are of common stock, Hargreaves. A crow bedecked with fancy feathers, you seek to cut a figure among peacocks.”

“I resent that remark, Traymer,” said Hargreaves angrily. “It is an insult to me and to Professor Sheldon—”

“You deserve insults,” said Traymer contemptuously interrupting the millionaire. “As for Professor Sheldon, I can very easily prove his feeling toward you.”

“How?” demanded Hargreaves.

“With more ammunition,” was Traymer’s answer.

With that, Traymer drew a revolver from his pocket, and thrust it against the millionaire’s ribs. Hargreaves stepped back, too astounded to take any action.

“What — what — what” — Hargreaves was stammering — “what are you trying to do, Traymer?”

“I intend to kill you,” answered Traymer coldly, “as a favor to Professor Sheldon, who detests you. He will be here in a few minutes to state the fact himself — but you will not hear it. Those flaring matches, Hargreaves, were the signal that all is ready. The professor’s ship is just off the yacht. Your crew is filled with his men — and he has some capable assistants on his own boat — the boat, Hargreaves, that robbed the Patagonia!”

HARGREAVES became game. He made a leap at Traymer. With a laugh, Traymer leaped back, and laid his finger on the trigger of the revolver as Hargreaves slipped against the rail. Half falling, the millionaire had no chance against his murderous foe. Traymer delivered his last thrust now, speaking in a wicked tone.

“Here goes the shot, Hargreaves,” he said. “It starts the fight that will end this yacht cruise — and when the bullet hits, it will end a useless life.”

Traymer’s last prediction was correct. As the society man lowered his revolver to cover his helpless victim, a shot roared forth the instant that Traymer’s finger moved against the trigger.

But Anthony Hargreaves never received the bullet that was intended for him. The cannonlike roar did not come from Traymer’s gun. A shot from an automatic, twelve feet away, was the one that issued forth.

Maurice Traymer was right. A useless life was ended with that shot. The life was Traymer’s own. The Shadow — who had come aboard as Lamont Cranston — had been watching for this moment.

With timely skill, The Shadow had discharged his automatic. The bullet found its mark in Traymer’s body. The revolver clattered to the deck as Traymer crumpled at the feet of Anthony Hargreaves, the honest man whom he had sought to slay!