The Isle of Doubt

CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW PASSES

AT noon, the next day, Harry Vincent received an answer to his telegram.

Harvey Wendell, at the desk in the office, took the message when it was telephoned in from Knoxport.

The secretary typed off the words and brought the telegram to Harry.

The telegram was signed by Rutledge Mann. Harry smiled sourly as he showed the message to Weston Levis.

“Who is Rutledge Mann?” questioned the old man.

“New York investment broker,” returned Harry. “He has been conducting the deal with the promoters. All was set when I came out here. I could have arranged a purchase for a plot of land such as this plantation — and the deal would have gone through.

“But when I wired that no suitable ground was available, it brought on a conference. By the time they’re through, they’ll have decided to develop land along the Missouri or the Yazoo, instead of the Mississippi. That’s the way those promoters work.”

“How will that effect you?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “They may decide to have me continue in this locality; they may send me elsewhere. Possibly I may be recalled to New York. It will only be a matter of two or three days before I hear positively.”

“I hope you will receive word to stay longer,” said Levis. “This has been an enjoyable acquaintanceship, Vincent. I have come to regard you as an old friend.”

Harvey Wendell was eyeing Harry narrowly. The Shadow’s agent evidenced no concern. Harry was positive that Wendell could have no inkling to the real purport of that telegram.

The instructions to make no negotiations meant that Harry was to stay away from the island. The reference to an expected conference signified that Harry would soon hear from The Shadow. The words “prepare report” told Harry that he should have a complete record in readiness.

After lunch, Harry sat on the veranda with Levis. There was no reason for another motor-boat trip to-day, as Harry’s interest in Mississippi properties was temporarily in abeyance. Harvey Wendell was in the little office. Harry knew that Wendell, too, could make no move.

With others in possession of the island, the masquerading secretary could not visit that spot until after nightfall. Harry would be on watch then, to observe the man’s actions.

THERE was only one slight doubt in Harry’s mind regarding his suspicions of Wendell. It was possible that the secretary might have been rowing down past the island, with no particular purpose — and by mere chance have noted the light from the isolated house. Such a theory, however, seemed highly improbable.

While Harry was thinking of Wendell, the man appeared to announce that the typed letters were ready for Weston Levis’ signature. The elderly man arose and went to the screen door.

“You will excuse me, Vincent,” he said. “The work of reading the letters will require only a few minutes. Come along, Wendell.”

Harry remained alone on the veranda. The young man arose and strolled out on the lawn. Hadley chanced to appear, and waved a greeting. He came over to talk to Harry.

“Like it around here?” questioned the overseer.

“Very much,” replied Harry.

“Sleepy place,” said Hadley, “but it’s a nice locality. I like it better than St. Louis.”

“You came from there?”

“Of course. I was sort of landscape architect on the old estate which Mr. Levis sold when he bought this place. I wasn’t very keen on coming up the river. But I’ve been working for the old man a good many years.”

“As long as Wendell?”

“Him? Wendell?” Hadley grunted. “Say — he’s a chiseler, that guy. How he jammed his way into his soft job is more than I can figure. Levis had to have a secretary that could travel places — that’s how he got Wendell.

“In and out — that’s Wendell. You don’t know where he goes or what he’s about. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Well” — Hadley paused to shrug his shoulders — “I guess the old man needs him, so that’s that.”

Hadley was still standing around when Levis reappeared from the house. The overseer approached the old man to report on work about the plantation. Harry went back to the veranda, and sat in an easy-chair. He stared reflectively toward the sparkling river — off toward the isle of doubt and the wrecked steamer.

THE SHADOW knew all about that island now. Harry’s telegram of yesterday afternoon had given essential information. Last night’s message had supplied the news that the crooks were there. Harry’s suspicions of Harvey Wendell constituted a matter that The Shadow would learn later.

How soon? Harry considered that subject as he leaned back in his chair and stared drowsily toward the blue sky beyond the woods that banked the farther shore of the Mississippi. Harry felt drowsy; in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

Weston Levis continued his conference with Hadley. The two men departed toward the inland field.

When they returned an hour later, Harry was still slumbering. Harvey Wendell appeared, carrying a stack of addressed envelopes. The slam of the screen door half awakened Harry Vincent from his nap.

Then came another sound — a distant drone that gained in its intensity. Harry sat up and blinked. He saw Wendell and stared questioningly. A smile appeared upon the secretary’s sallow, pasty face.

“Just an airplane,” informed Wendell. “Following the river. They come along here every now and then. If they get off the regular course, they pick the Mississippi and take it down to St. Louis.”

Harry stepped from the veranda and looked toward the sky. Wendell was close beside him. Levis and Hadley had ended their conversation. The thrum of the plane was louder; the ship itself had come to view. It was flying at an altitude of a few thousand feet. A swift monoplane, this man-made bird was winging its way at a modified rate. It passed directly over the plantation, veered slightly as it traced the river bend, and lost in altitude.

“He’ll give it the gun when he gets farther down,” commented Wendell. “They all slow up a bit along here — the river course is pretty twisty.”

Harry watched the plane. The silvered wings were glinting in the sunlight as the ship continued on the river course. Instead of taking the leftward bend which characterized the main channel of the Mississippi, the monoplane seemed to guide itself toward the island which caused the divergence of the great stream. As the airplane covered the distance which lay between the plantation and the isle, Harry observed a peculiar phenomenon. The direction of the sun’s rays produced a blackness underneath the silvered wings. Just as the plane neared the island, that spread of darkness assumed the proportions of a grotesque shadow.

The plane above the island! A natural result of the aviator’s course. Yet, to Harry Vincent, there was singular significance in the scene. Harvey Wendell had turned away. Weston Levis was walking back toward the house. Hadley was departing. Harry remained, staring down the river, under a fascination which he could not voice.

The airplane had passed. To all but Harry, its passage was now a forgotten event. There were men upon the island over which the plane had swept. Those men, as Harry knew, were crooks, but they would see no significance in the mere passage of an airplane heading down the river.

But Harry Vincent, as he still watched the plane’s thrumming progress toward the horizon, realized a new sense of security. A chain of connected events throbbed through the young man’s mind.

The Hotel Slater, in New York — this isolated plantation on the Mississippi — Harvey Wendell, the pretended secretary — crooks in hiding — telegrams with double meaning — all were linked.

Harry had received his message from Rutledge Mann. More than that wired answer had come. This airplane, a chance traveler through the sky, was joined with all that had gone before!

THE plane was no more than a speck in the distance. Harry’s gaze lowered to the green wooded surface of the isle of doubt. Harry’s eyes also noted the derelict shape beside the island — the wreck of the River Queen.

Harry had found the spot which he had been deputed to discover — the little island which was the goal of men who sought ill-gotten wealth. Harry had been upon that isle. Yet he was not the only one who had studied that clump of green in an effort to learn the secret shared by men of crime.

Eyes from the monoplane had seen the isle of doubt as well. Harry Vincent, alone, could guess the identity of those eyes. They were the eyes of The Shadow!

The airplane had passed from view. Harry Vincent turned toward the veranda, quietly concealing a smile of elation. He knew that his hunch was correct. The Shadow had come to the Mississippi Valley. High in the air, the master who battled crime had passed above the isle of doubt!