The Isle of Doubt

CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW SEES

SHORTLY after midnight, a quiet, dignified man appeared in the lobby of a large St. Louis hotel. He stopped at the desk and inquired if there were any messages for Mr. Lamont Cranston. He also gave his room number — 618.

The clerk found a notation in the box and brought forth a package that lay beneath the desk. The quiet man received it and walked toward the elevators. He stopped on the way; returned, and spoke to the clerk, as though by afterthought.

“I may be leaving town tonight,” he remarked. “However, I shall retain my room here. If any messages arrive, be sure to hold them until I return or call.”

“Very well, Mr. Cranston.”

The clerk watched the tall figure that again started toward the elevators. There was something distinctive about Lamont Cranston that attracted the attention of the hotel employee. In appearance, manner, and speech, this guest was unique.

In viewing Cranston’s face, the clerk had seen a firm, well-set countenance that possessed a marked impassiveness. It was impossible to make a conjecture as to Lamont Cranston’s age. It might have been judged at anywhere between thirty and fifty. A visage so chiseled that it appeared almost masklike — such was the face of Lamont Cranston.

Tall, upright in carriage, and of sweeping stride, Lamont Cranston impressed the observer as a man of great latent power. He moved with a pace which was almost leisurely, yet which carried him forward with surprising swiftness.

In speaking, Cranston had a steady, even tone that carried no unusual note when one heard it; yet every word that Cranston uttered seemed to embed itself within the listener’s mind. While the clerk watched the guest enter an elevator, he could still fancy that he was hearing the words which Lamont Cranston had spoken.

Despite the routine which now engaged the clerk’s attention, the man could not shake off the presence of the singular guest who had discussed such minor matters as a package and possible messages which might arrive during his absence.

IN the meantime, Lamont Cranston had reached his room. Standing by the window, the tall figure was strangely still. Lamont Cranston, idly staring toward the lights of the city, had assumed the appearance of a blackened statue.

More amazing than that form was the silhouette that lay upon the floor. Stretching across the thick carpet lay an elongated splotch of blackness that terminated in a hawk-nosed silhouette. Like a sinister shape from another sphere, that streak of darkness betokened a presence that seemed more than human.

As Cranston turned from the window, the silhouette vanished. The shadowy stretch shortened as Cranston approached the wall. A long white hand pressed the switch. The major portion of the room was plunged into darkness; only one corner remained illuminated. There, a small, shaded incandescent cast a bright glow upon a writing desk.

Cranston, as he approached that spot, was almost invisible in the gloom. His hands, as they stretched forward beneath the light, crept into view with a curious action that made them seem like detached creatures of life. White hands, long-fingered, they showed a sensitive touch combined with latent strength.

In appearance, the hands were identical; but one bore an emblem which marked it from the other.

A jewel of radiant hue — that was the token which shone from the left hand. A gem that flashed uncanny light reflected the illumination of the lamp. Sparks seemed to leap upward, while the weird stone glimmered with the colors of a living ember. That gem was the identifying mark of the personage who wore it — for it was unique in all the world.

The jewel was The Shadow’s girasol!

Harry Vincent had been correct in his belief that the plane above the isle of doubt had seen piloted by The Shadow. The master of mystery had arrived upon the Mississippi. He had passed the place of his quest. Here, in St. Louis, he had revealed himself in the adopted identity of Lamont Cranston, wealthy visitor from New York.

When The Shadow’s hands appeared alone beneath the glare of lamplight, they invariably had a purpose in such action. Not long after they had arrived in view, they produced the flat, gray-covered package which The Shadow had received from the clerk at the desk in the lobby.

The fingers broke the seal. A stack of photographic prints appeared. Quickly, easily, the hands ran through the set. These pictures were aerial views, obtained by still photography. All depicted portions of the Mississippi River.

Among them were pictures which had been clicked above the island which lay near Weston Levis’ plantation. These were the photographs that The Shadow desired. The others were nothing more than extras.

THE isle of doubt as seen from the air, was quite different from the river view. An elongated oval, it showed completely in the photographs. The thick trees were rounded bumps that seemed like tiny bushes. Amid them, unprotected by branches, was the roof of the deserted house.

Every contour of the island, each tiny cove and jutting cliff, now showed plainly as The Shadow viewed the pictures. Features unnoticed from the ground were plain in the snapshots which had been taken from a higher altitude.

Beside the island, the wreck of the River Queen appeared as a trifling toy, its flat decks whitish, its smokestacks tiny circles of black. The muddy river bed which held the derelict made a queerly shaped smudge on all sides of the boat.

The single photograph on which The Shadow concentrated was one which clearly demonstrated the remarkable results obtainable through aerial surveying. It showed the reason why the vast current of the powerful Mississippi had chosen the longer course around the little island instead of forcing its way through the narrower but more direct channel.

The jutting crags — gray, misshapen outlines in the photograph — that marked the upper end of the island, were actually the continuation of hidden reefs which showed beneath the surface of the water. Projecting from the head of the isle toward the mainland, this streak of rock formed a natural jetty that diverted the river current.

The submerged rocks also accounted for the formation of the marshy land that had embedded the wreck of the River Queen. Projections of underwater rock extended at intervals from the lee shore of the isle; these served as gatherers of silt. The course of years had brought about the marshy accumulation that now appeared as an extension near the lower end of the island.

The whole contour of the swamp exhibited a spotty irregularity. This sector was by no means a complete morass; it consisted only of clumpy splotches of quagmire that appeared above the surface of the water.

The remainder of the bog was submerged — reeds, growing from muck, projected above the water.

Thus the swamp was not a portion of the island; instead, it was a district which might be easily navigated by a flat-bottomed rowboat or light skiff, provided the craft was kept clear of the frequent mud banks.

The River Queen itself had served as an accumulator of mud. On the side of the ship toward the isle, heavy marsh was evident upon the photograph. The swamp, however, faded away on the outer side of the ship. Approach to the River Queen would not prove difficult from that side, although the boat appeared to be in the thick of a troublesome bog.

Why had the old steamboat aided in the gathering of silt? The answer — one which might have puzzled a river navigator — was plain in the photograph. The bow of the old vessel was wedged against a rib of rock that came like a reef from the island. Once the River Queen had been stranded, a natural stoppage had been formed by the angle of boat and rock.

Yet that did not explain the steamship’s permanent position. Current, forcing its way into the point where bow of boat met rock would naturally have caused the River Queen to swing away. The eyes of The Shadow were keen as they studied the telltale photograph. The long index finger of the white right hand traced its way along the picture.

SLENDER lines in the bog beside the River Queen gave the answer. That point of rock was not the only element in the wedging of the derelict. The tilt of the old boat indicated more. The story of the years was evident. The River Queen, when she had run this cut-off, decades ago, had encountered a mass of jagged rocks which the pilot had failed to observe off the shore of the island.

The boat had been abandoned. The river, lowering, had evidently failed to rise to that former flood height. The morass had formed, and now the River Queen would lie at permanent anchor until its timbers rotted. Solid rocks were mud covered; only the mechanical eye of the camera, accurate from the height of many feet, had managed to record the presence of the trouble-making reefs which had caused disaster to the old steamboat.

The situation of the River Queen established, The Shadow studied the island itself. Except where the flat roof of the house and the bald spaces of rocks were visible, the isle showed only as a mass of trees.

There was no clearing, no spot that might serve as a special location.

Winging above the isle of doubt, The Shadow had used a camera to obtain a preliminary survey. The photographs had brought definite facts concerning the surroundings. The island, itself, would have to be investigated on foot in order to gain further results.

The hands of The Shadow replaced the photographs in the packet. The hands moved away. The room lights came on, and Lamont Cranston, tall and inflexible of expression, again stood in view.

Two bags lay in a corner of the room. With them was a large dress-suit case and a long, cylindrical canvas bag that might have been a container for a large roll of blankets. Cranston placed the smallest bag upon the long roll.

Going to the telephone, Cranston called the number of a St. Louis garage. He gave his name, and asked if the car that he had ordered was in readiness. Receiving an affirmative reply, he gave instructions to bring it to the hotel.

He then made a call to the desk — a summons for a porter. The man arrived a few minutes later. When he heard Cranston’s response follow his knock, the porter entered to find the guest standing beside the window, quietly smoking a cigarette.

“The long canvas bag,” remarked Cranston, in his even monotone. “Also the small bag that is with it. Take them to the street. Wait for me there.”

“How about them other bags?”

“I am not taking them. I am still retaining this room.”

When Lamont Cranston appeared upon the sidewalk in front of the hotel, he found the porter standing beside a sedan that had come from the garage. A man approached from the car, and inquired if this was Mr. Cranston.

“All right, sir,” said the man, after receiving an affirmative reply. “You’ll find the machine in great shape. Just sign this receipt — never mind taking me back to the garage. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

The porter stowed the long bag and the little grip in the back seat of the sedan, while Cranston was signing for the car. He had paid in advance when he had ordered this vehicle. The detail completed, Lamont Cranston tipped the porter, stepped into the car and drove away.

HALF an hour later, the sedan was speeding along an open road that paralleled the bank of the Mississippi. Past the suburban area of St. Louis, Lamont Cranston was traveling by land, back along the route which he had traversed by air. Since his arrival in St. Louis, this stranger had obtained developments of aerial photographs. His plane was at the airport, stowed in a hangar, awaiting his return.

He was driving away in a chartered automobile, but the room at the hotel was still reserved by Lamont Cranston. Although Lamont Cranston had established himself as an identity in St. Louis, his departure was more than the simple absence of a man who had come and gone. Later, Lamont Cranston would return to his hotel. The length of his absence would depend entirely upon circumstances.

But with his departure, Lamont Cranston had also ended his identity for the time. The driver of the swift sedan that was swinging along beside the Mississippi was no longer a man who called himself Lamont Cranston.

Instead, that car was piloted by a mysterious being — a personage who was completely shrouded by the interior darkness of the front seat. Invisible hands clutched the wheel; those hands were incased in thin black gloves.

A pair of sharp eyes burned as they watched the turning road ahead. Those eyes alone marked the presence of the living being who was driving forth to a mysterious quest. The Shadow had dropped his assumed identity. His cloak upon his shoulders, his slouch hat upon his head — these garments had come from the little bag which the porter had brought downstairs.

The garb of The Shadow! Like a mantle of darkness, those black accouterments had transformed this personage into a mystic creature of the night. The Shadow, master of deduction, was riding onward to the spot where adventure lured.

Summoned by his agent’s messages, assured that lurking crime was soon to break, The Shadow had winged westward from New York, and on his way had not only made certain observations, but had recorded the scene upon the Mississippi.

Viewing the island itself, studying the photographs which he had taken, The Shadow had seen the situation which he was now to face. Simply and effectively, he had gained information which others had failed to obtain.

Three crooks on the isle of doubt; Harvey Wendell, investigating from the old plantation; Harry Vincent on watch, awaiting the arrival of The Shadow. These were the elements of the situation which The Shadow was prepared to meet.

With it all, The Shadow possessed a strange, unanticipated advantage. From the air, The Shadow had seen. The results of his findings would soon be put to the test.

For when The Shadow sees, The Shadow knows!