The Isle of Doubt

CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW SEEKS

A RAKISH touring car shot past a red light on a Manhattan avenue. It whirled through a broken opening in the traffic, and headed for a side street. As Punch Baxton, the driver, uttered an oath, the strident cry of sirens sounded from far behind.

The touring car roared unmolested toward the center of a silent block. Brakes ground as the car came to a standstill. Punch was uttering low commands.

“Scram,” he ordered. “Through the alley. Drag Snooks along, a couple of you fellows. There’s a car waiting in the next street.”

The mobsters clambered from the car. Like scurrying rabbits, they headed for the blackness between two buildings. “Snooks,” the wounded gunman, managed to stagger along with the rest of the thugs.

“This is where we make our getaway,” growled Punch, as he pushed open a gate near the end of the alley. “I paid a grand for the car that’s here to pick us up. It’s worth it—” The mobsters reached the end of the alley. A new oath came from Punch Baxton.

The car that the gang leader had counted upon was not there!

Punch stepped into the light of the street. As his form came into view, a shot sounded from the sidewalk opposite.

Punch yanked out a gun. New shots blazed forth. In the face of fire, Punch turned back into the alley. His men were scurrying along the way that they had come. Snooks was forgotten. The wounded gangster had fallen and was crying out for aid.

Shots ricocheted after the retreating mobsmen. Those shots were a signal. The beam from a powerful searchlight illuminated the alley. Punch and his men were dashing directly into the terrific glare!

Cursing, Punch turned toward the gateway. His men followed his example. They were face to face with a dozen invaders.

Punch Baxton, toughest gang leader of New York’s underworld, asked no quarter. He knew that these were detectives. He would fight them to the end.

One shot was all that Punch fired. His bullet found its mark in a detective’s leg; Then came a volley of shots from the direction of the searchlight. Punch Baxton plunged forward, two bullets in his back. His wild-shooting henchmen had made no effort to surrender. They, too, collapsed from bullets dealt by the detectives.

A STOCKY figure entered the limelight. Detective Joe Cardona had set his ambush. He ordered his men to carry out the bodies. Two policemen appeared and approached the detectives. These uniformed men reported the chase that they had made.

Joe Cardona strode along the alley and reached the street, where Punch Baxton had expected Possum Quill to be waiting. The first man whom the detective encountered was Clyde Burke. The reporter followed as Cardona beckoned.

The detective reached a telephone, and called headquarters. Clyde listened to the conversation.

Cardona’s face became grim and satisfied as he concluded the call.

“Well, Burke,” said Joe, “you saw some action, didn’t you? You’ve picked up a good story just because you happened to be down at headquarters when a tip-off came in. Here’s the inside of it, Burke — I just got it from Inspector Klein.

“This gang raided the home of Caleb Wilcox, the radio millionaire. They beat it when the servants sneaked up on them and opened fire. Then they ran into the trap which I had put out for them.”

“Did they get anything?” queried Burke.

“No,” returned Cardona. “If they had, we’d have grabbed it from them. We didn’t know where they were bound tonight — we only got a tip-off that they were going to transfer to another car through the alley.”

“Where’s the other car?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cardona. “We laid low so it could come up — but it never got here. The tip-off may have something to do with it, Burke. It looks like a double cross.”

“How?”

“Maybe one of the birds that was to have been in the other car had a grudge for Punch Baxton. Maybe they figured it would be better for us to be here than them. Yeah — that’s probably it — a double cross.”

“See you later, Joe,” said Clyde. “I’m calling the office to give them the story.”

When the reporter reached a telephone, he did not call the Classic office. Instead, he dialed Burbank’s number.

A few minutes later, Burke was reporting the fact that Possum Quill had failed to appear within the zone of watching policemen and detectives.

BURBANK, in his sequestered room, received Clyde Burke’s report with his usual calmness. Still seated with his back to the light, untiring in his continued vigil, the contact man made telephonic connection to The Shadow’s sanctum. A whispered voice indicated that the master had returned to his secret abode.

“Burbank speaking,” said the contact man.

“Report,” came The Shadow’s tone.

“Report from Burke,” informed Burbank. “Punch Baxton and mobsmen dead after battle with detectives. No trace of Possum Quill. His car did not appear.”

“Further report from Vincent,” came the voice of The Shadow.

“None,” declared Burbank. “He is stationed a the Hotel Slater. Awaiting instructions. Final report in readiness.”

“All agents off duty,” was The Shadow’s order.

This meant that Burbank’s vigil would be ended as soon as he received later calls. Clyde Burke and Cliff Marsland would telephone in from wherever they might be. In the meantime, Burbank plugged in and called the Hotel Slater.

Harry Vincent, still stationed in his room, was pleased to hear Burbank’s instructions. The young man placed an envelope upon the table, and packed the ear phones in a bag which lay beside the bed. Off duty meant that he could go over to the Metrolite Hotel for the night, returning for his bag early in the morning. Harry had a permanent room at the Metrolite, and preferred it to these temporary quarters in an inferior hotel.

NOT long after Harry’s departure a key grated softly in the lock of the door. The barrier opened, then closed. The tiny rays of a flashlight flickered. The light went out. A hand pulled the cord of a floor lamp.

The tall figure of The Shadow appeared in the shaded illumination.

Gloved hands picked up the envelope which Harry had left. The hands opened the message. The keen eyes of The Shadow studied the blue-inked report. By the time that the reader was scanning the bottom of the first page, the words at the top began to fade away.

All special messages to The Shadow were penned in this disappearing fluid. Moreover, the written words were in a simple but effective code. To The Shadow, the statements were plain; to another, they would not have been understandable; and they would have vanished before the reader could have gained an inkling of the message.

Harry Vincent’s report included important statements which had come over the dictograph. To The Shadow, the remarks made after eleven o’clock carried unusual significance. Possum Quill’s reference to Zach Telvin, the escaped convict — the arrival of a visitor whose name had not been mentioned — the remarks at the time of departure — all were important.

The Shadow, tall and obscure, his black cloak hiding his lithe form, and the hat brim shading his features, laughed softly as he read Harry’s mention of the sound of crinkling paper. A description of Possum’s visitor brought another soft echo of mirth. Also, the mention of the bag which Lefty Hotz had carried.

The floor lamp clicked out. The door opened. The Shadow appeared in the corridor. The black cloak swished; it gave a momentary flash of a crimson lining, as The Shadow stooped before the door of Possum Quill’s room. The door opened in response to a master key. The black-clad investigator entered the room which the crook had so recently occupied.

The Shadow’s purpose was one of sinister portent. To the master of darkness, no victory was satisfactory unless it proved complete. Tonight, The Shadow had shattered an invading horde of mobsters. He had spelled doom to a gang whose forays were famed throughout the bad lands.

In letting Punch Baxton elude his toils, The Shadow had done so that Possum Quill might be implicated when the police captured Punch. Somehow, Possum had managed to keep from the danger zone.

Possum, a regular worker for Punch when getaways were necessary, was scarcely more than a minor figure in the crimes committed by the Baxton mob; nevertheless, The Shadow’s net should have enmeshed this lesser crook.

What was the explanation of Possum Quill’s absence? The Shadow sought the answer in this place. With Punch Baxton dead, Possum would take for cover. The Shadow intended to locate him, wherever he might be.

Possum Quill had received a visitor shortly before eleven thirty. Harry Vincent had seen no definite link between that individual and the man whose name Possum had casually mentioned earlier — Zach Telvin.

To The Shadow, however, Harry’s report carried a coincidental thought.

The crumpled newspaper in the corner! Keen eyes saw it as The Shadow turned on the light in Possum’s room. This was the paper that Possum had crushed while making a jocular remark to his unidentified companion.

The Shadow picked up the newspaper and spread it open. He saw the picture of the penitentiary, and noted the tear running inward from the margin of the sheet.

The Shadow laughed softly. He had suspected the identity of Possum’s visitor. This told him who the man was.

Zach Telvin, escaped convict, had come to visit Possum Quill!

Why?

If the fleeing man had sought only shelter, he would not have made the long and dangerous trip to New York. The Shadow knew that there was some other reason for Possum’s arrival here. Keenly, The Shadow linked that reason with Possum’s failure to keep the rendezvous with Punch Baxton.

One thousand dollars: that was the price which Punch was to pay for Possum’s services. For Possum to be absent, as he had been, meant that hope of greater gain had lured the crafty crook. It also signified that Possum had departed from Manhattan. New York would not be a safe place for Possum Quill to remain after pulling a trick on Punch Baxton.

Where had Possum gone?

THE SHADOW sought the answer. His tall form, vague in the muffling folds of the black cloak, moved into the little room where Possum had conferred with Zach Telvin. A light came on; The Shadow’s piercing gaze sought everywhere. The sharp eyes spied fragments of paper in the wastebasket.

Possum Quill had torn Zach Telvin’s rough chart into many pieces. Putting those bits of paper back together was a difficult task, yet The Shadow began it with amazing swiftness.

Ungloved, The Shadow’s hands worked upon the table beneath the light of a side bracket. The girasol glittered and cast its shimmering sparks. In the simple work that lay before him, The Shadow exerted the same skill and precision that he used in other enterprises. The fingers made no false moves. They planted the paper fragments piece by piece, until Zach Telvin’s crude chart once more lay complete.

As effectively as if he had been present at the meeting between Possum and Zach, The Shadow studied the rough diagram. He recognized the large oval as an island in a river. The letters S.L. — the tabulated figures — these gave him the clew to the Mississippi. The square mark was obviously a landing place.

Carefully, The Shadow considered the short lines with the outlined dot in their midst. This was a projection of the island. Upon this point only did The Shadow show a trace of doubt. Shoal water or swamp — a rock or some other distinguishable object located at that spot.

The Shadow laughed softly. Paper and pen appeared in his right hand. In blue ink, The Shadow traced a duplicate of Zach’s crude chart, and added figured summaries beside it. Then followed coded notations.

The Shadow folded his paper, and placed it in an envelope. He wrote another note, placed it with the envelope, and sealed both in a larger wrapper.

With another pen, The Shadow wrote the address of Rutledge Mann, Badger Building, New York City.

The hand that wore the girasol swept up the fragments of paper, and let them flutter into the wastebasket.

The light went out. The Shadow moved to the other room, quickly drew the microphone from behind the radiator, and gathered up the hidden wire that led beneath the carpet toward the hallway.

Back to Harry’s room; the wire stowed in the bag with the ear phones, The Shadow’s work was done.

With a mocking whisper upon his lips, the black-clad master disappeared along the corridor.

THE SHADOW had solved the mystery of Possum Quill’s strange departure. He had recognized the identity of Zach Telvin. The details of the raids made by “Birch” Bizzup’s gang were familiar facts to The Shadow. The newspapers had made much of the case, and had commented upon the inability of the police to discover the stolen spoils.

To The Shadow, all was plain. Amid the ashes of Punch Baxton’s crimes, he could see the beginning of a new episode in which Possum Quill intended to play an important role. Eager crooks were on their way to an isle of doubt, seeking to discover buried wealth.

They would not be alone in that quest. The Shadow, too, was in the game. It was The Shadow’s move, and he was one who moved by stealth. The ceaseless war with crime was one which required The Shadow’s presence in Manhattan at this time; but The Shadow had a way when he set out to seek the unusual in criminal activities.

The isle of doubt! The Shadow would pave the way to that mysterious spot. He would follow when the time was ripe. The triumph of evil men would he short-lived when The Shadow chose to make his counterstrike.

The Shadow knew! And The Shadow’s long talons would reach out to another section of the country, even though The Shadow himself must, for the time, remain fighting gangdom in New York!