The Isle of Doubt

CHAPTER VI. THE MAN FROM THE EAST

A STEAMBOAT was chugging upstream against the current of the mighty Mississippi. A young man, standing near the prow of the ship, was studying the shores which bordered the broad path of the wide, curving stream.

Despite the greenness of the banks, the Mississippi provided a sense of sleepy desolation. The warm sun gave the young man a feeling of laziness. As he gazed along the river, he speculated upon the peculiar turn of events which had brought him here — to a locality where Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had never expected to travel in The Shadow’s service.

The morning after Harry’s vigil at the Hotel Slater, in New York, Harry had received a telephone call, instructing him to appear at the office of Rutledge Mann, a Manhattan investment broker. Rutledge Mann, a chubby-faced individual who took life in leisurely fashion, was one who served as secret contact man for The Shadow.

The investment office was actually a blind, although Mann did good business in the Badger Building. Only The Shadow’s agents knew of Mann’s actual duties. Harry Vincent, when he had visited the investment office, had expected word from The Shadow.

He had been surprised, however, to learn what was required of him. Harry had thought that accounts were squared with Possum Quill, Lefty Hotz, and the third man who had accompanied that pair of crooks.

Instead, Harry had been instructed to follow on the trail of the men whom he already knew, and to look for the stranger who was with them. This third man, Harry had learned, was an escaped convict named Zach Telvin. The trio’s destination was an island in the Mississippi.

How had The Shadow learned these facts? Harry could not surmise. The Shadow’s capacity for deductive solution of crime was something that Harry could not even imitate. It was Harry’s duty to follow The Shadow’s bidding. He had done so. Aboard a steamboat chugging up the Mississippi, he was now approaching the vicinity in which the island lay.

There were numerous islands in the river, hereabouts, but Harry had seen none that answered the description shown in the sketch which The Shadow had sent him. Thus Harry continued to watch the river ahead, while he speculated upon the vanished fame of the Mississippi as an avenue of navigation.

Very few boats had been sighted along the river. Those that Harry had seen were chiefly tugs, towing scows. Harry looked in vain for passenger vessels that would match descriptions of such old-time ships as the Robert E. Lee. Even this boat upon which Harry was a passenger was scarcely more than a tawdry freighter.

THE boat rounded a bend. Harry, staring straight ahead, observed a narrowing of the river between two wooded shores, far up the stream. His eye caught sight of an object that aroused his immediate interest — an old-time steamboat, close beside the right-hand shore.

Two smokestacks, side by side, awakened Harry’s recollections of stories that he had heard concerning the old Mississippi. There was no smoke coming from the funnels; Harry decided that this ancient vessel must be lying to, near a wharf.

“An old-timer, eh?” Harry put the question to a mate who was standing near by.

“Sure enough,” said the man.

“Not many of them navigating the river,” suggested Harry. “It’s odd that that one is still going.”

“That boat!” the mate laughed. “Say — that old packet ain’t moved along the Mississippi for thirty years.”

“Anchored?” queried Harry, in surprise.

“Aground,” returned the mate.

“Strange,” said Harry. “She’s there in the main stream—”

“Not by a jugful,” interposed the mate, with another laugh. “That old relic would have cracked up long ago during high water or flood time. That ain’t the main stream. Look over there.” He pointed toward the right, and Harry observed a bend that was opening to view. The mate again pointed toward the stranded steamship.

“See the list on her?” he queried. “That’s the packet River Queen. There ain’t been no fire in those boilers since before I was born. There used to be lots of wrecks along the river — lots like that one — but most of them has washed away.”

“Why not the River Queen?” asked Harry.

“On account of the spot where she lies,” explained the mate. “She’s alongside an island. That narrow strip of river used to be a cut-off, in high water — one of those places where the river chews through.

“The pilot of the River Queen must have chanced a short cut and run his tub aground. Anyway, there she is. What’s more, that cut-off was one that was fading out instead of growing. Each year it got shallower and shallower. No steamboat could go through there now — even a tug might hit trouble.

“That island has been growing out into river. Swampy land — you’ll see the long reeds all up around the River Queen when we get close. That’s why the old boat has stayed. She’s fast in the mud and mush — anchored to stay. You’d have a tough time blasting that packet loose from her moorings.” The lower end of the island was enlarging as the mate spoke, and Harry could begin to see all that the man had mentioned. The plodding steamship was veering slightly toward the right. It was taking the widened course that swung around the island.

Harry was interested in the story of the stranded ship. It was not until his plodding boat had come within a quarter mile of the island and the mud-bound packet that a sudden thought occurred to Harry. The Shadow’s chart flashed into mind.

An island, near one shore. Shoal water or swamp — it was the latter. A projecting rock or some object amid that swamp — the River Queen answered the description. A steamboat — not a rock!

Harry had found the isle of doubt!

The Shadow’s agent turned to the mate. The man was biting off a chew of tobacco as Harry put a question.

“Is there a landing anywhere above the island?”

“Sure,” nodded the mate. “The old Saunders Landing, a couple of miles up. We’re putting in there.”

“How’s the farm land or plantations hereabouts? Cheap?”

“You bet; but any guy’s a sucker to buy it.”

“Why?”

“Going down in value right along. The old Saunders plantation was for sale. They say a fellow from St. Louis bought it. Maybe he wants to get rid of it.”

“Maybe I’m a sucker,” said Harry thoughtfully. “Nevertheless, I’m looking for property around here.”

“You’ll find plenty of it,” asserted the mate. “The river moved out a couple of miles up the line. Stranded the town of Knoxport. The place has been dead ever since. If you’re looking for land, you might as well drop off at Saunders Landing.”

“That’s what I’ll do,” decided Harry.

THE steamboat was passing the island. The wreck of the River Queen was lost from view. Thick woods dominated the island. A mass of green obscured the interior from sight.

As the steamboat progressed and entered a straight expanse, Harry could see small crags jutting from the head of the isle. Up the river, on the left side, he made out a small, but well-kept landing.

When the boat came to dock, Harry Vincent stepped down the gangplank. He was eyed curiously by barefooted gamins and lounging Negroes who had come to see the steamship dock. Among them was a husky white man, wearing knickers and leather puttees, and displaying brawny arms from a sleeveless shirt. He was superintending the unloading of some large cases from the boat.

Harry approached the man. He waited until the job was ended. The steamboat was sliding away into midstream; Negroes were loading the cases on an old truck. The brawny-armed man looked at Harry.

“Want to see me?” he questioned.

“I’m looking for the Saunders plantation,” stated Harry.

“Yeah?” questioned the man. “That’s where I’m from.”

“Fine!” exclaimed Harry. “I heard the place was for sale. I wanted to look it over.”

“It’s not for sale now,” returned the bare-armed man. “I’m working for the gentleman who just bought the plantation. It belongs to Weston Levis, from St. Louis. He’s living there now.”

Harry drew a card from his pocket and proffered it to the man. The card bore Harry’s name and the announcement that he was a New York real-estate agent.

“Perhaps,” suggested Harry, “it would be worth my while to call on Mr. Levis.”

“Suit yourself,” returned the man, extending his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Vincent. My name is Hadley. I’m the superintendent or overseer or whatever you want to call me. Come along, if you want. We’re riding up to the plantation now.”

Hadley took the wheel of the old truck. Harry clambered up beside him on the driver’s seat, and tossed his bag into the back, where three Negroes were seated with the cases that they had loaded. Hadley jammed the truck into gear. It rolled along a dirt road, and took a fork toward the left.

The rough road paralleled the river for a quarter of a mile. Then it came into a clearing, beside a tiny cove. Harry had not seen this spot while coming up the river, but he noted with elation that the island and the wreck of the River Queen were both visible from this spot. Hadley brought the truck to a stop in front of an old plantation house.

“Here we are,” the man announced. “Mr. Levis is inside. Come on — I’ll introduce you to him.”

Leaving his bag in the truck, Harry alighted and followed Hadley toward the house. The door opened and a kindly faced old gentleman appeared. He was attired in a white Palm Beach suit, and he gazed quizzically at the stranger who was accompanying Hadley.

Harry knew that the man at the door must be Weston Levis. With his glib story in readiness, The Shadow’s agent approached. There was nothing but calmness in this sultry scene, yet Harry Vincent sensed that adventure might well be lurking over the old plantation. With the isle of doubt visible down the stretch of the Mississippi, this would be the spot from which to act!