The Python

CHAPTER XV THE MIDNIGHT MEETING

THE flame-scarred Tropical did not dock until after ten o’clock. The stout ship had encountered heavy weather outside New York harbor; yet it had managed to limp safely into port without the aid of attendant coast guard cutters.

Coming through the upper bay, the liner was greeted by saluting whistles; when the ship docked, a rousing cheer was raised by those who thronged the pier.

Captain Henderly and his crew were heroes; the slightly listing Tropical was a ship that would long be remembered. Those aboard the liner had fought through the greatest of all ocean hazards — fire at sea. They had won their struggle without casualties, except those among mutinous crew members.

One dying crook had blabbed names — among them those of two passengers: Luke Duronne and Hank Slyder. Both were missing; and they were listed as with the mutinous group, for it was apparent that they, too, were crooks.

Yet Captain Henderly was not content. Two other passengers had failed to answer roll call. Though they could not be marked as dead, the skipper doubted that they ever would be found; and that fact made him glum amid the welcome. The two unfortunates whose fate burdened Henderly’s mind were Louis Revoort and J.F. Jenks.

During the landing of passengers and luggage, there were spying eyes upon the pier. Albert Thurney was on hand; and so were others, members of a different Coil. Doc, the Coilmaster, and a crew of henchmen were present, disguised as longshoremen. They were watching all baggage from the boat.

Among those who came ashore were Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. With them, they had a battered, fire-scorched trunk, once the property of the mythical J.F. Jenks.

The trunk went by The Python’s watchers. It was taken by a transfer truck for baggage shipment to New Jersey; and its new owners followed it to the ferry in a taxi.

ONE hour after the Tropical had docked, a new guest entered the Legrand Hotel. He signed the register with the name “Louis Revoort,” eyeing the clerk as he did so. The man at the desk did not connect the name with the list of passengers aboard the Tropical. He assigned the new guest to Room 810.

Tall, thin and wiry, this newcomer lighted a cigarette as soon as he had entered his room. He puffed his smoke in short, nervous fashion, a simulation of Revoort’s own action. In every detail — including the bronzed color of his face — this was Louis Revoort. Actually, however, the new guest was The Shadow.

A telephone bell rang. The Shadow answered it and spoke in Revoort’s tone. A quiet voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

Revoort’s tone vanished; it was replaced by a commanding whisper:

“Report.”

From Burbank, The Shadow’s contact agent, came brief reports. Harry and Cliff had reached a little station in New Jersey; Stanley had met them there, to get the trunk belonging to Mr. J.F. Jenks, who had just arrived as a guest of Lamont Cranston. Cliff, as a friend of Jenks, was going to Cranston’s. Harry intended to return to New York.

The Shadow ordered Burbank to have Harry call the Legrand Hotel after his arrival. That done, he heard Burbank’s report from Clyde Burke. It told of Jurrice’s sudden disappearance. Moe Shrevnitz, Burbank reported, was still outside the Hotel Bragelonne and had not seen Jurrice return.

Had Burbank’s report included mention of Carl Ramorez, it might have signified deep doings. Clyde, however, had not noticed Ramorez at the steamship office. So The Shadow acknowledged the report and hung up. In the guise of Louis Revoort, he lounged in an easy-chair while he considered matters for himself.

The Shadow could guess that Jurrice had heard from Ramorez. That would explain why he had slipped away from Clyde. Jurrice would certainly trust Revoort’s Cuban friend in preference to an unknown newspaper reporter.

Moreover, he might have made an appointment with Ramorez. While The Shadow speculated thus, the telephone rang again.

A purring voice was on the wire. It inquired for Louis Revoort; The Shadow acknowledged in Revoort’s tone. A joyous sigh of real relief was audible on the wire. Then the speaker announced himself as Ramorez.

“I found your good friend Jurrice,” came Ramorez’s tone, in smooth English. “He was very unwise, at the steamship office. Fortunately, no harm was done. He is with me at the present. We must all speak together.

“It would be well for you to come to the hotel that I have chosen. It is a very obscure place, where I have kept close hidden. It is called the Cambia; and is much less conspicuous than the hotel where you are staying. Shall we expect you, Senor Revoort?”

“Very soon,” returned The Shadow.

“The room,” purred the Cuban’s voice, “is number 820.”

THE SHADOW donned outer garments, adjusting his overcoat to conform to automatics already hidden beneath his suit. He left the Legrand, summoned a cab and drove to the vicinity of the Cambia. The hotel was a second-rate one, located on a side street some distance north and east of Times Square. It fronted on an elevated line.

The lobby which The Shadow entered was uninviting. Dingy and dim, it was occupied only by the clerk behind the desk. The Shadow inquired for Senor Ramorez.

The husky clerk motioned to an elevator, manned by an operator who looked like a bouncer. The Shadow ascended in the clattering lift and stepped off at the eighth floor, which proved to be the top story.

Behind the feigned nervousness of Revoort, The Shadow had been vigilant during the entire trip. He knew that The Python might have been watching Jurrice.

It was also possible that the supercrook had been clever enough to learn something about Ramorez or Revoort’s scheduled arrival at the Legrand Hotel, although these possibilities were less likely.

Keeping a constant look-out, The Shadow had spied no signs of lurkers. This proved that The Python’s henchmen were not about; for such underlings could not have dodged The Shadow’s observation. This eighth floor of the Cambia Hotel was utterly deserted; that was an additional good omen.

Carl Ramorez had chosen poor quarters; but that did not surprise The Shadow. He knew that the Cuban was low in funds and practically in hiding. Moreover, Ramorez was a foreigner and in a district such as this would be less conspicuous. There was quite a difference between the Cambia and Jurrice’s hotel, the Bragelonne, which was many blocks distant and in a much better neighborhood.

Knocking at the door of Room 820, The Shadow was admitted by a tall, dark-skinned man with a heavy mustache, who answered the description of Carl Ramorez. Passing a narrow entrance by a closet door, The Shadow reached the main portion of a plainly furnished room.

Chairs were drawn up beside a half-opened window, for the night had proven warm. Ramorez purred a greeting and indicated one chair. As The Shadow took it, he noted a closed door beyond; and surmised that it led into an adjoining room.

Apparently, the Cambia, despite its dinginess, had been recently made fireproof. Doors were of metal; so were the small-paned sashes of the window. The bed and the desk, though plain, were also of metal construction. The chairs were simple, but of heavy wood, stained to resemble mahogany. The carpet, though plain, was new.

“Ah, senor,” remarked Ramorez, who had closed the outer door, “You have been surprised at this fine room in such an old hotel. It is one of very few; they have not completed the making over of this place. I was lucky to obtain it.

“But tell me, senor” — the Cuban’s tone showed anxiety — “how was it that you were safe upon the steamship Tropical? Our friend Jurrice has spoken with a reporter, who told him that you might be safe. I was lucky to guess who Jurrice was; he has been here to speak with me.”

“Where is he at present?”

“Senor Jurrice? Where he should have gone before. To the newspaper office — or to the dock — I do not know which. He was not certain when he went from here. But it was best, so we thought, that you and I should first talk alone. The treasure, senor. Come — tell me — is it safe?”

“Quite safe.”

THE SHADOW had noted Ramorez’s eyes. They had looked him over shrewdly, as if the Cuban sought to make sure that this visitor was really his old friend Revoort. To the average person in disguise, the action would have indicated that Ramorez had discerned some flaw in the make-up. The Shadow’s thoughts, however, were quite different.

He knew that his guise of Revoort was perfect in every detail; that Carl Ramorez — or Craig Jurrice — could not have told him from Louis Revoort had both doubles come here together. With Revoort standing before him in that Maryland cottage, The Shadow had made himself into the man’s mirrored reflection.

There was a different reason for Carl Ramorez’s doubt. The Cuban had some cause — one that he could not manage to conceal — for believing that Louis Revoort could not be here in person. Even his greeting had shown it. Instead of asking breathlessly about the treasure, he had first talked of the room; then given an excuse for the absence of Craig Jurrice.

These facts had made The Shadow glimpse Ramorez keenly; and he had gained further knowledge by his glance. He had discerned about the Cuban certain points of facial contour that did not tally with Revoort’s description of Ramorez.

Unfortunately, The Shadow had not gained his full conclusion until the door was locked and he found himself seated opposite the man who had received him. It was then, when the dark man smiled, that The Shadow knew the entire truth.

This smooth-voiced caller who had summoned The Shadow to a midnight meeting was also in disguise. He had donned a deceptive make-up; but it had not baffled the keen-eyed visitor. This man who called himself Carl Ramorez was none other than The Python!

This room that the supercrook had chosen for his present abode was a specially fitted chamber. Those metal doors were the fronts of pill boxes, wherein henchmen lurked. The room was a death trap; any attempt to reach the outer door would mean the instant roar of doom-dealing guns.

ONCE more The Shadow was within The Python’s power; and to add to his dilemma, The Shadow had gained further understanding. He knew that The Python must have had aids on watch at the pier; that the master crook was positive that Louis Revoort had not come ashore from the steamship Tropical.

Acquainted with The Shadow’s prowess, The Python must surely have guessed of that escape from beneath the East River. Contrarily, The Python had probably not heard of the episode aboard the Colonia, for those on the tug had been out of touch with their evil chief — too much so to have bothered with details of a chance supercargo whom they had pitched overboard.

As Carl Ramorez, The Python had called the Legrand Hotel. Answered by Louis Revoort, he had made a cunning guess; he had decided that it would be easier for The Shadow to be there as Revoort than for Revoort to be at the Legrand in person.

Thus did The Shadow reason; and the correctness of his deductions proved the direness of his present situation. For his one slight advantage — his recognition of The Python — was counterbalanced by circumstance. The Python, in turn, had guessed that his visitor was The Shadow!