The Killer

CHAPTER IV THE MEXICAN SAILS

DUSK was falling on Manhattan. The windows of skyscrapers were aglow with light. Viewed from an office high in the Badger Building, the city presented a fantastic spectacle. A chubby-faced man, seated at a desk, was apparently awaiting the arrival of a visitor. He was watching the sky line as he rested.

A knock at the door. The chubby man turned from the window. In reply to his call to enter, a stenographer opened the door.

“Mr. Vincent is here,” informed the girl. “He wishes to see you, Mr. Mann.”

“Show him right in,” ordered the chubby-faced occupant of the swivel chair.

A stalwart young man entered. He closed the door behind him. He took a seat at the side of the desk. His keen, frank face wore a questioning look.

To all appearances, this might have been an ordinary business meeting between Rutledge Mann, investment broker, and Harry Vincent, gentleman of leisure. Mann had his offices in the Badger Building; Vincent, who lived at the Metrolite Hotel, made occasional visits to the suite.

The purpose of these meetings, however, dealt with other matters than investments. Rutledge Mann was contact agent for The Shadow; Harry Vincent was one of The Shadow’s active agents.

From a desk drawer, Rutledge Mann produced a photograph. He passed it to Harry Vincent. It showed the portrait of a hard-faced, puffy-cheeked man who would not be difficult to recognize. The subject of the portrait was wearing a soft gray hat.

“Jerry Herston,” explained Mann. “Once a private detective. Now a man who knows considerable about racketeers and their ways.”

“Implicated in any crimes?” asked Harry.

“No,” returned Mann. “On the contrary, Herston has very good standing with the police. This photograph did not come from the rogues’ gallery. It is from the files of the New York Classic. It was put there a year ago when Herston aided in the capture of a notorious crook.”

Harry Vincent understood. Clyde Burke, another agent of The Shadow, was a reporter with the New York Classic. Mann had evidently received the photograph through Burke.

Oddly enough, while Harry Vincent, Clyde Burke, and Rutledge Mann knew one another well, all three remained in total ignorance of the identity of their hidden chief — The Shadow.

“I received a communication this morning,” resumed Mann. “As a result, I obtained this picture for your consideration. Jerry Herston will appear at the Central American Shipping Pier this evening, prior to the sailing of the steamship El Salvador.”

As he spoke, Mann picked up a blank sheet of paper from his desk. He carelessly tore it into fragments and dropped the pieces in the wastebasket.

Harry Vincent smiled. He, too, had received communications from The Shadow. That blank piece of paper was the message which Mann had received. The Shadow’s notes, written in a special ink, had a habit of disappearance as soon as their simply coded words had been perused by the agents who received them.

“Jerry Herston,” continued Mann, repeating information which he had evidently memorized, “is watching a man named Luis Santo, Stateroom 45, Deck B, on the El Salvador. Simply keep notes of any unusual actions on Herston’s part. Leave the boat at the final call. Report afterward.”

Harry nodded. He picked up the photograph of Jerry Herston and studied it intently. When he had satisfied himself that he could remember the ex-detective’s physiognomy, he handed the picture back to Rutledge Mann, who replaced it in the desk drawer.

“The El Salvador sails at midnight,” remarked the investment broker. “Jerry Herston will arrive at the pier at least fifteen minutes before the hour.”

The statement ended the interview. Harry Vincent left the office. Rutledge Mann followed shortly afterward. The Shadow’s instructions had been given.

IT was shortly after eleven o’clock when Harry Vincent hailed a taxicab near Times Square, and ordered the driver to take him to the Central American Shipping Pier. The cab reached its destination twenty-five minutes later. It was a clear night, and the pier presented a complete contrast to the foggy scene of the preceding evening.

The steamship El Salvador glittered with lights. The pier was thronged with passengers sailing on the ship. The season was one for departure rather than arrival from Central and South American ports.

Harry Vincent stationed himself at a good spot from which to observe those who entered. Eight minutes passed. Out of the crowd stepped a man whom Harry quickly recognized as Jerry Herston. As soon as his quarry had passed on to the pier, Harry followed.

Jerry Herston showed no haste in boarding the El Salvador. He strolled about in inconspicuous fashion, carelessly watching the faces of those who stood near the gangplank. There was nothing in his manner that showed unusual design.

Turning casually, Herston calmly observed persons who were close by. Constantly using the precautions of the professional sleuth, this ex-detective wanted to make sure that he, in turn, was not being watched. He was just a moment too late to catch Harry Vincent’s eyes upon him.

Swinging back toward the gangplank, Herston stopped abruptly as he caught a glimpse of a man walking from behind a post. In that flash, he recognized the face of Harland Mullrick.

Herston smiled. He knew that Mullrick did not wish to be seen by Luis Santo; at the same time, he knew that Mullrick was probably anxious to make sure that he — Herston — was on the job.

Herston stared suspiciously after Mullrick had moved away. His chief had disappeared behind a stack of crates that were being loaded on the El Salvador, but Herston fancied that he saw someone else close by.

He caught a momentary glimpse of what appeared to be a pair of sparkling eyes. Then the illusion was dispelled. Herston laughed at his own foolishness.

He did not know that he had almost seen The Shadow!

It was quarter of twelve. A fifteen-minute signal was coming from the ship. Herston wondered if Santo was aboard. There was one way to find out. Joining a cluster of passengers, Herston moved along the gangplank. He glanced over his shoulder and saw no one following. He boarded the El Salvador.

One minute later, three people walked up the gangplank. One of this group was Harry Vincent. The trio, clustered, formed a gloomy splotch of black beneath the dim, indirect light. Stretching in back of them was a long, grotesque shadow that seemed unusually large.

That following shade was the token of The Shadow himself. Close behind the little group, so close that his gloved hand almost touched his agent’s arm, The Shadow, too, was boarding the ship. He had seen Harland Mullrick depart from the pier; he was able, now, to survey the observations which Harry Vincent was about to make.

HARRY circuited the ship, ascended a flight of steps, and found himself on Deck B. He noted the number of a room. Calculating, he took his station under cover of a companionway, and spotted the door of Stateroom 45. He did not notice the black-garbed form that stood a dozen feet behind him, a spectral shape of darkness by the ship’s rail.

This was the side of the ship away from the pier. Two passengers approached, and went by Harry Vincent without seeing him. Glancing back to the door of 45, Harry saw a man stop at that point. He recognized Jerry Herston.

He saw the man place his hand upon the knob. The door yielded; Herston, hand in pocket, suddenly opened it and entered. The door closed behind him.

Harry wondered at the action. He supposed that Herston must have rapped, ready with an apology had Santo opened the door. Why had the ex-detective entered? Obviously because no response had come. Did he intend to await Santo’s arrival?

Desiring a closer view, Harry Vincent moved from his place of shelter and sidled along the deck until he neared the stateroom. He saw the door begin to open; quickly, he ducked into the shelter of another doorway.

He caught a glimpse of Jerry Herston stepping forth. He saw the man glance quickly in both directions. Then Herston strolled along the deck in a direction opposite to Harry’s location.

There was no chance to move until Herston was out of sight. As soon as he was sure the man was gone, Harry stepped to the door of the stateroom. He saw a light in the frosted window. He rapped twice; when he received no response, he entered.

Within the doorway, Harry stopped. His blood froze. In the horror of that moment, he rested his hand upon the knob of the half-opened door, but lacked the power to push the barrier shut. Experienced though he was at meeting the unexpected, Harry could only stare in grim tenseness.

On the floor of the cabin lay the body of a man. Harry saw a purpled face, a countenance once swarthy, which now was blood-swollen. From an opened mouth, beneath a pointed black mustache, extended a long tongue that drooped from the agony of death.

The man’s collar had been ripped away. His arms were twisted askew beneath his body. The side of his head bore rough, ugly bruises.

It was obvious how death had come. Some powerful adversary had leaped upon the victim unaware, had hurled the man bodily to the floor and had beaten out his life against the edge of the berth.

Bruising, crushing force, together with brutal strangulation had brought prompt murder. Harry knew that this man must be Luis Santo. He pictured Jerry Herston, powerful and swift, leaping upon Santo in mortal combat.

Death, despite its brutality, could have been almost soundless behind the closed door. The strains of a band were coming from somewhere on another deck. Harry recalled that the sound had been plain while Herston had been in this cabin.

He wondered not at the swiftness and effectiveness of the murder, but at its daring. Santo could not have been asleep when Herston entered.

Of a sudden, Harry’s senses returned. He realized that he was standing with a door opened beside him, staring at murder which someone else had committed. At the same instant, Harry had an instinctive feeling that eyes were watching him.

He backed to the deck, looked quickly in both directions and decided that the impression had merely been a delusion.

In moving backward, Harry had automatically closed the door. His thoughts reverting to Jerry Herston, he turned and walked along the deck in the direction which the ex-detective had taken. Despite the tense sensation which the sight of death had given him, Harry did not look back.

Hence he did not see the tall form that suddenly materialized from a deck post beside the rail. He did not see the figure that swept swiftly to the door of Stateroom 45, and entered there. Harry Vincent was too intent upon finding Jerry Herston.

WITHIN the cabin where Luis Santo’s body lay, The Shadow stood like a huge creature of retribution. He had arrived too late to save the Mexican’s life. Only a few minutes remained before the ship was due to sail, yet The Shadow was loath to leave.

Turning, he noted that Luis Santo’s coat and hat lay on a chair. Beyond, The Shadow saw the door of a huge, closetlike wardrobe. Swiftly, The Shadow studied the position in which the man’s body day in reference to the outer door of the cabin.

The Shadow went to the wardrobe. Its door was closed, but the knob did not resist when The Shadow’s gloved hand drew it. The fastenings of the wardrobe door had been flattened. Instantly, The Shadow recognized whence death had come.

Luis Santo had entered this cabin. He had held his hat and coat upon his arm. He had gone to the wardrobe. As he had reached for the knob the door had swung open. A fierce attacker had caught the Mexican totally off guard. Swift, brutal death had followed.

Where his agent, staring at death, had placed the burden of murder upon Jerry Herston, The Shadow had drawn different conclusions. He knew that the killer had been in that wardrobe; that, after finishing Santo, he had closed the door and placed the dead man’s hat and coat upon the chair.

Jerry Herston, like Harry Vincent, had viewed death; nothing more.

The Shadow placed his hand upon the door of the cabin. The portal opened far enough for his peering eyes to sight the deck. As the tall figure emerged from the stateroom, the strains of a bugle were sounding the final call for all ashore.

Harry Vincent, on the pier side of the ship, was standing by the gangplank, carefully eyeing all the persons who were leaving. Realizing at last that Jerry Herston must have gone ashore, he joined the final group of visitors who were departing from the El Salvador.

Once again, a fleeting, shadowy form moved in the wake of those upon the gangplank. As the departers reached the pier, a tall figure separated itself from the small throng.

The steamship was moving from its berth. Tugs were drawing it into the river. Its lights aglow, the El Salvador turned its nose downstream. It formed a vivid picture, that black hulk with its illuminated cabins. Those who had come to wish their friends bon voyage were gone. Only one remained to watch the liner swing amid the waters of the North River.

That one was The Shadow. A silent, motionless sentinel at the end of the deserted pier, he saw the long island of floating light as it headed toward the lower bay. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s mysterious lips. It was a sinister laugh, more grim than mirthful. It betokened nothing of The Shadow’s secret thoughts.

Tonight, The Shadow had come upon the result of crime. He had reached the pier in time to witness Harland Mullrick’s departure. He had watched his agent, Harry Vincent, follow Jerry Herston to the scene of death.

Was this the beginning of new thrusts designed to further the schemes of a man who considered wealth more valuable than justice? Only The Shadow knew. He could find the answer; when death again was due, The Shadow would be ready.

The laugh died, sighing, unheard upon the lapping waters. It was a parting knell for ears that could not hear. Luis Santo had sailed. Fate had provided for him another destination than his native Mexico.

The Shadow knew how Luis Santo had died. The Shadow’s course was pointed toward the brain and hand that had conspired to perform that murder!