The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER IV. THE LOST TRAIL

ALL had quieted on the waterfront. The departure of clanging patrol wagons had left this area to the envelopment of the fog. River whistles still persisted with their blasts but human tumult had completely died.

Raiding police had swooped in and carried out their prey; all traces of that episode had passed. Yet there was evidence of an aftermath to the short battle; traces that led away from Dory Halbit’s deserted dive.

A light was glimmering upon the roughened timbers of a pier. A tiny glow, the little flashlight cast a concentrated disk that was concealed by the form above it. The Shadow was following a trail that he had picked up after the departure of the police.

A splotch of blood showed beneath the light. It was not the first mark of its kind that The Shadow had discovered. Through alleyways, past lurking spots, he had continued along his path, seeking the course that a wounded man had followed. The Shadow was close behind Sailor Martz.

The trail was not an easy one. Blood stains on cobbles, sidewalks, timbers, were infrequent in their intervals. They were tokens of times that Sailor Martz had paused in crippled flight. Where Sailor had lost ground because of his wound, The Shadow, too, had encountered handicaps.

For Sailor’s course had been a zigzag one; and each blood splotch had demanded a surrounding search before the next could be discovered. Yet The Shadow had made gains. He could tell that from his inspection of the newer bloodstains.

Here, on the timber of the pier, the roughened wood should have absorbed the crimson fluid, despite the dampening influence of the fog. The splotch, however, was fresh. Sailor Martz had passed this spot only a few minutes ago.

Blinking out his light, The Shadow stared through the enveloping mist. Even to his hawkish gaze, the blackened atmosphere was impenetrable. Yet The Shadow sensed that he had neared the end of a trail.

Splotches of blood had been more frequent. They were larger than before. Sailor Martz must be nearly through.

That fact meant that his detour to this pier had not been a blind one to cover up a trail. Sailor had used such tactics after leaving Dory’s dive. Realizing that he could hold out no longer, the foiled assassin had straightened from his zigzags. Instead of pursuing a circling search, The Shadow moved outward through the blackened fog. He wanted to learn what was at the end of this pier. There, perhaps, would be quickly gained evidence of Sailor’s whereabouts.

Husky whistles seemed to bellow a welcome from the channel as The Shadow neared the end of the pier. Then came a silence of those blasts. The Shadow caught new sounds, faint ones. Mingled with the slight lapping of pier-nibbling wavelets was the groan and scrape of wood against wood.

Stooping, The Shadow ran a gloved hand along the edge of the pier, in the direction of the sound. His fingers encountered a water-soaked rope. Following that tracer, the cloaked investigator suddenly discerned a solidness in the blackness off the pier. Edging past the timbers, The Shadow dropped to the deck of a moored barge.

PROBING forward, The Shadow encountered new solidity. It was the top of a cabin that projected up from the barge deck. Searching hands found a closed door. Sinking into a cockpit, The Shadow opened the barrier. Light glimmered from within. A groaning voice came to The Shadow’s keen ears.

Entering a first cabin, The Shadow closed the outer door as softly as he had opened it. He turned toward the light; it came from an inner door that stood ajar. Advancing, The Shadow peered into a dirty bunk room. The light of a hanging lantern gave him view of the scene.

Sailor Martz was stretched upon a lower bunk. The groans had been his. Eyes glassy, Sailor was holding conversation with a rough, sweater-clad barge-man who stood beside the bunk. The Shadow listened.

“I’m through, Beef,” coughed Sailor. “I–I was out to get a guy; but some mug got me instead. I’m through.”

A grunt was “Beef’s” response. Sailor spoke again; his words were a mumble; the rough man was forced to lean forward to hear.

The Shadow crept into the bunk room. He moved almost to the edge of the light. He breathed a sibilant hiss that Beef alone could hear. The barge-man swung about. His eyes stared; an oath started from his lips. Then Beef’s outcry ended.

With a swift drive of his gloved hands, The Shadow caught the barge-man in a twisting hold that brought choking fingers to Beef’s throat. With a backward whirl, he snatched the big man away from Sailor’s bunk. Out through the door into the darkened cabin; there, The Shadow’s fingers tightened.

Beef subsided; his body sagged limp. The barge-man was out. The Shadow let him slump to the floor.

“Beef!” Sailor’s hoarse gasp sounded from the bunk in the inner room. “Beef — where are you? I–I’ve got to talk! Beef!”

The Shadow reentered the bunk room. He approached Sailor’s resting place and bent forward, his figure on the near side of the dying man’s head. The Shadow spoke in a hoarse growl, that Sailor took for Beef’s.

“Spill it, matey,” he ordered. “I’m here, listening.”

SAILOR strained his head upward, trying to see his companion. The effort was too great. Sailor groaned and closed his eyes. He heard a grunt from above. Satisfied, Sailor spoke wearily.

“You — you gotta do somethin’ for me, Beef,” insisted the dying man. “I–I fixed things, see? Fixed ‘em with a guy named Rigger — Rigger Luxley. Shipped him and his outfit aboard the Zouave.”

A grunt from The Shadow. It resembled Beef’s usual type of comment.

“You know the ship,” persisted Sailor. “Hilder’s the skipper, Jason Hilder. Owns a half interest in the tub. Wasn’t nobody wanted to ship aboard that tramp. I talked Hilder into takin’ Rigger aboard, with a mob to fill out the crew. Hilder — Hilder got five grand for the deal.

“I was — I was coverin’, here ashore — coverin’ for Rigger” — Sailor paused wearily — “an’ I–I gotta tip him off. You can do it, Beef — do it for me — with a wireless to the Zouave. I–I’ll tell you how to spring it—”

A spasm of coughing shook Sailor’s frame. Vainly, the dying man tried to speak. When he did find words, they were maudlin. Disconnected phrases came in a choking voice.

“I’m coverin’ — coverin’ — for Rigger. Aboard the Zouave. Gotta — gotta tip him, Beef. There — there’s a guy here in New York. Yeah, I–I was coverin’ when they got me—”

A snarling sound came from bloated lips. Sailor’s body tightened; then dropped limp as a final gulp came from his throat. Glazed eyes froze. Sailor Martz was dead.

THE SHADOW stepped into the light. A sinister figure, he might well have represented death itself, come to gloat above the corpse of another traveler to the realm of oblivion. But The Shadow’s purpose was one that concerned the living, not the dead.

He had learned much. He knew a spot where crime was due — aboard the tramp steamer Zouave, captained by Jason Hilder, with Rigger Luxley, missing mobleader, on ship accompanied by a squad of killers. The Shadow knew that the Zouave could be traced. The tramp had cleared port only a dozen hours ago.

But The Shadow wanted more facts. Swiftly, deftly, he searched Sailor’s body for articles that might mean new clues. The Shadow found nothing of value.

Turning about, the phantom-like figure moved through the outer cabin. Beef was stirring on the floor; but the big man had not fully regained his senses. The Shadow went out to the fog-laden deck. He stepped back upon the pier and made his way ashore.

From then on, The Shadow’s course tended away from the waterfront. It stopped at one point only; when The Shadow heard gruff voices and the clatter of footsteps. The Shadow flattened against a wall as three policemen shouldered past through the fog. The Shadow resumed his course; a soft laugh whispered from his lips.

The presence of bluecoats meant that Joe Cardona had learned that Sailor Martz was missing from the crowd hauled in during the raid. A search was on for Sailor; sooner or later, it would lead to the old barge at the end of the pier. But Sailor Martz, when the law found him, would be of no value as an informant.

Hazy street lamps showed a looming figure emerging from mist as The Shadow reached a lighted avenue beneath an elevated structure. A taxicab was standing by the corner, its driver lounging behind the wheel.

The Shadow entered the cab; he spoke in quiet tones.

The driver heard the instructions and looked puzzled. He wondered why a passenger wanted to go to Newark in all this fog. That, however, was the passenger’s business. The taxi driver chuckled at thought of the coming fare.

UP in a luxurious suite at the Hotel Marrington, four men had gathered for conference. Detective Joe Cardona was standing by the living room window, oblivious to the glistening glow of city lights that formed an aura through the outside fog.

Vic Marquette, still in his rough disguise, was seated in an easy-chair. The secret service operative still looked weak from the slugging that he had taken in combat with two dicks. Dye, however, covered the pallor that would naturally have been upon his face.

The others were men of dignity. One was middle-aged, heavy-set and square-jawed. His black hair showed but traces of coming gray. He had the look and manner of a big business executive. This was Caleb Wesdren, whose name and address Vic Marquette had carried in his pocket.

The other was a kindly faced, gray-haired man, whose features, despite their mildness of expression, held a ruggedness that was backed by steely eyes. Joe Cardona had heard of this man often. He was Senator Ross Releston, who stood high in importance among the Washington solons.

Cardona felt a trifle sheepish as he caught the glint of the senator’s steady-gazing eyes; then Releston’s smile put the detective at ease.

“A mistake was made tonight,” stated Releston, “but it was one of overreaction. It could have been avoided, Detective Cardona, had you been informed that Marquette was engaged in trailing Sailor Martz.”

“That’s a fact, senator,” returned Cardona. “I wish I’d known what was up. Maybe we’ll get Sailor, though. I’ve got a whole squad searching the waterfront. He was wounded. He couldn’t have gone far. But maybe if I knew why Marquette here was after Martz—”

Cardona paused as Releston smiled. The senator motioned for silence, then began his explanation.

“Briefly,” he declared, “the matter concerns war secrets. Various governments have been cooperating to prevent the theft of important inventions. Mr. Wesdren, as head of a large syndicate of manufacturers, has custody of valuable models and plans which pertain to devices useful in case of war.”

“All these are protected in my vault at Washington,” put in Wesdren. “But Senator Releston has informed me that international spies may be after them.”

“We received information from England,” explained Releston, “that involved thefts accomplished there. One of Scotland Yard’s undercover men is coming to New York on the Steamship Doranic. He is due tomorrow. What is the man’s name, Marquette?”

“Eric Delka,” responded the operative. “But he’s reserved his rooms at the Goliath under the name of Jarvis Knight.”

“Delka will be contacted after his arrival,” remarked the senator. “But, in the meantime, we received cabled advice from London which named two men for whom we should be on the lookout. Give Detective Cardona the details. Marquette.”

“One chap,” declared Vic, turning to Joe, “goes under the name of Jed Barthue. Slippery customer — I’ve heard of him before. Talks a bunch of languages and goes everywhere. International spy and nobody’s got a good idea of what he looks like.

“Barthue swiped some British inventions and shipped the models out of Liverpool. That’s as far as Scotland Yard traced him; but they did pick up a line on a fellow calling himself Sailor Martz. He had been seen around the Liverpool docks.

“The Yard found out that Martz shipped for New York. That made them think that Jed Barthue would be coming to America, too. Looked like another hook-up coming. So the idea was to find Sailor Martz and watch him. That was my job; I came to New York and spotted Martz on the waterfront.”

“WHEN did you first see him?” inquired Cardona.

“Last night,” replied Marquette. “I saw him coming out of Dory Halbit’s. That’s why I was back there tonight. This afternoon, though, I reported to Senator Releston, who was in town.”

“I was stopping at the Hotel Nestoria,” remarked Releston. “I am going to Washington by sleeper, tonight. That was why I gave Marquette the information that he could reach Caleb Wesdren here at the Marrington, in case of important news.”

Cardona nodded. This explained why Vic had carried the slip of paper that dicks had found in his pocket.

“I telephoned here myself,” went on Releston. “That was at four o’clock, Wesdren. You had not arrived; so I left Marquette’s information for you.”

“With whom?” demanded Wesdren.

“With Craig Jollister,” replied the senator.

“Jollister!” exclaimed Wesdren. “I thought that he had gone to Washington. He was not here when I arrived.”

“He left no message for you?”

“None. But, after all, the man is an absent-minded sort. Eccentric and useless except in his particular work.”

“Who is Jollister?” inquired Cardona.

“A designer of safes and strong boxes,” replied Wesdren. “He fitted the door to my vault room; also the door to the vault itself. He is in Washington most of the time; occasionally he has business here in New York. I suppose he stayed longer than he had intended to, on this present trip.”

“Well,” declared Vic Marquette, breaking a short silence, “I ran into trouble with this fellow I was watching. Sailor Martz was no easy customer. That raid of yours came in a pinch, Cardona. I needed help. It would have worked just right, if you men had nabbed Martz.”

“It took a pair of mugs to muff it,” chafed Cardona.

“So we will have to count on Inspector Delka,” decided Vic. “I’ll meet him tomorrow. You can come along, Cardona; we might as well cooperate on the New York end of this business.”

“You will have Delka see me in Washington?” inquired Releston.

“Yes,” replied Marquette, “as I bring him there, senator.”

“When are you coming back to Washington, Wesdren?” asked Releston, turning to the black-haired executive.

“As soon as possible — tomorrow,” replied Wesdren. “I shall communicate with you, senator, after my arrival.”

“Do you think that Jollister has gone to Washington already?”

“I doubt it. He’s probably staying here in New York, somewhere. He’d probably show up in a few days. After all, I cannot find fault with him. He has practically completed his work in my vault room. His time is really his own.”

A TELEPHONE bell rang. Wesdren answered the call. He spoke a few words; then passed the instrument to Joe Cardona. The detective talked to headquarters then hung up with a sour smile.

“They’ve found Sailor Martz,” declared Cardona, “but the fellow’s dead. He got his in that fight at Dory’s joint.”

“Where did they find him?” questioned Marquette.

“In an old barge off the end of a pier,” replied Cardona. “They heard some fellow scramble away; but they couldn’t trace the man in the fog. A pal, maybe, of Sailor’s. Sailor was dead in a bunk aboard the barge.”

Marquette grunted; then Cardona added a comment in a tone that spoke of finality.

“It’s a lost trail,” decided the ace. “One that nobody will follow further, now that Sailor Martz is dead.”

“You’re right,” agreed Marquette. “Whatever Martz knew died with him.”

Ross Releston and Caleb Wesdren nodded their glum accord. The trail was lost; the only course was to await a new one, after the arrival of Inspector Eric Delka.

Four men had guessed the same; their unanimous conjecture was wrong. The trail that Sailor Martz had furnished was not one barren of results. The Shadow had gained facts when he had tracked the dying man.

Already, The Shadow was taking measures to follow up the word that he had learned. Craftily had The Shadow tracked the lost trail. On his own, that master who countered crime was preparing new action.

Hidden facts remained; cross-currents lay beneath the smooth surface that covered crime. The Shadow, himself, had taken it upon himself to enter a game already in the making.