The Python

CHAPTER VI OUTWARD BOUND

“THAT’S the flash-back, Jake.”

“What’s the orders? To clear the harbor?”

“Yeah. As soon as Tanker and Pete come aboard.”

“They’ll be here any minute, Lem.”

The speakers were peering from the side window of a tiny pilot house, aboard a seagoing tug. They were watching the flicker of those bluish lights atop the loft building. The glare was easily discernible from this spot on the East River.

The man called Lem was standing with one hand on the wheel. The dim light of the pilot house showed a hardened, flattish face beneath a stiff-visored cap. Lem was the captain of the tugboat. His pal Jake, a scowly, long-jawed ruffian, was the ship’s first mate.

“Remember, Jake,” confided Lem in a low-pitched tone, “I’m Mr. Hurdy, on board this packet; and you’re Mr. Baliss. We’re using our right names; and we’re sticking to them.”

“I’ve told that to the crew, Lem.”

“Good. Make sure that nobody forgets it. I’m the captain of the tug Colonia; you’re the first mate; nobody else counts. We’ve got to act like we were somebody, in case we talk to coast guards. This Lem and Jake stuff don’t sound right from a disciplined crew.”

“I get it, Lem.”

Hurdy was looking through the front window of the pilot house. He spied a light twinkling halfway from the shore. He signaled for more steam.

Jake Baliss caught the idea. The light indicated that the little boat manned by “Tanker” and Pete; Lem intended to steam ahead and meet them.

WHILE Lem was talking thus to Jake, another man was also conversing with a lone companion. Seated in the stern of a rowboat, the underling called Tanker was speaking to his pal Pete, who plied the oars.

“Here comes the Colonia, Pete,” Tanker was saying. “Let her drift; the tide’s moving us upstream. They’ll take us aboard. Lem Hurdy must have spotted my flashlight.”

Pete complied. The rowboat swished around in the lapping tide. Tanker used the flashlight. The Colonia swung shoreward. Tanker dropped his right arm to the side of the seat. An instant later, he delivered a hoarse outcry.

Pete swung about from gazing at the tug. He dropped his oars as he felt the rowboat tip to one side. Yanking a flashlight of his own, he turned its beam on Tanker. Instantly, Pete saw the reason for his pal’s shout.

Hands from the water had gripped the side of the boat, close to the stern. Clawing for a better hold, they had found Tanker’s arm. Fingers had gained a viselike clutch, the grip of a drowning man. One grappling arm was around Tanker’s shoulder, fighting to retain its hold.

Tanker was trying to wrest away; but could not. Out of the river had come a dripping shape. Grim eyes were staring from a pale, water-soaked face.

Fighting desperately for life, this unexpected passenger had tipped the boat so that it was shipping water. Pete was forced to trim ship by clambering to the upper side.

“Haul him in!” he ordered, to Tanker. “Haul him in — before he drags you out! Get him aboard, Tanker, or you’ll be a goner! He’s got a drowning man’s grip!”

TANKER clutched the figure that had gripped him. As he wrested, he tugged, pulling toward the uptilted side. The lower gunwale raised. Pete reached for Tanker as the fellow twisted toward the bow. Both men jerked to haul their burden aboard.

“He’s over the gunnels,” coughed Tanker. “Ease up, Pete. Let him flop. He had his talons in my neck; but he’s loosened ‘em at last.”

Pete had dropped his flashlight; but he and Tanker could hear and feel the slosh that came when their struggling visitor sank gasping into the bottom of the boat. Tanker found his flashlight and turned it on the dripping figure.

Squarely in the center of the rowboat lay a form attired in black trousers and a bedraggled white shirt.

Most of The Shadow’s make-up had survived; but his features were no longer a close resemblance of Lamont Cranston’s. He was still disguised; but only in a fashion. A grotesque hollowness had come upon his hawklike countenance. To Tanker and Pete, however, The Shadow was no more than a chance swimmer exhausted in the river.

“Ahoy, there!”

The tug was alongside the rowboat. A gangway opened; crew members gripped the little craft. Tanker and Pete stumbled to the tug’s deck while the others hauled the rowboat over the side.

Pete was starting an explanation; in the midst of it, The Shadow’s prone figure rolled from the inward tilting rowboat and sprawled upon the deck.

Jake Baliss had arrived; he started as he saw the living derelict. Tanker was too choked to talk; Pete acted as the spokesman.

“Guess the guy was trying suicide,” he stated. “Must have lost his nerve; for he grabbed Tanker, over the side of the rowboat. Only thing to do was haul him aboard.”

“How about pitchin’ the mug overboard right now?” came a growl from another crew member. “How about it, Mr. Baliss?”

“The guy’s out; he won’t make trouble,” Jake decided. He glanced toward The Shadow. “We’ll lay him in the fo’c’s’le. Lug him down there, Pete — you and Tanker; you fellows brought him aboard.”

THE men from the rowboat hoisted the limp body and carried their burden forward. Jake mumbled to himself; then went up to the pilot house, to report to Lem.

The hard-faced captain must have promptly turned the wheel over to his equally tough mate; for it was Lem himself who showed up in the forecastle soon after Tanker and Pete had arrived there with The Shadow.

“What was the idea, you boobs?” demanded Lem, as he surveyed The Shadow lying wan-faced in a bunk. “Trying to make a bid for a Carnegie Medal? I didn’t hire you to be a couple of life savers.”

“There wasn’t no way out,” returned Tanker, who had found his voice. “This egg was yanking me overboard, Lem.”

“Someone said something about heaving the guy overboard,” remarked Pete. “It don’t seem right, though, skipper, when you figure he ain’t done no harm, and our job—”

“Your jobs will be whatever I order!” rasped Lem. “When I’m ready to get rid of this bird, I’ll call on you two for it. Anybody that begins to act soft don’t belong with my crew. That goes for both of you!”

Scowling, Lem Hurdy looked toward The Shadow. He saw eyelids flicker weakly; they opened to reveal straight-staring optics. Then the eyelids closed; The Shadow’s head wavered from side to side.

The tugboat captain attributed this condition to the shock of nearly drowning; but Lem’s surmise was wrong. The Shadow was actually suffering from an attack of the “bends,” produced by the sudden decompression from his quick trip to the outer air.

“Keep an eye on him,” decided Lem, turning to Tanker and Pete. “I’m holding the two of you responsible. Take turns staying here; and when you get the word from me, tie the guy up. If he begins to kick up trouble in the mean time, sock him.

Lem went up to the deck. He noted that the tug was passing Governor’s Island. The lights of moored ships were twinkling in the harbor. Growling to himself, this skipper who served The Python stamped toward the pilot house.

“How about it?” queried Jake, when Lem entered. “Want me to get rid of the fellow now that we’re past the island?”

LEM shook his head.

“There’s ships moored all along here,” stated Lem. “Then comes the Narrows; after that the Lower Bay, where there’s likely to be some coast-guard cutters. We don’t want to heave that guy overboard where he may be picked up. Whether he’s alive or dead, he might be traced back to us.”

“You’ll hold him until tomorrow night?” inquired Jake. “Is that the idea, Lem?”

“You’ve guessed it, Jake. This gazebo will be just one more floating corpse after that party’s finished.”

“Smart stuff, Lem.”

The tug steamed onward toward the Narrows. Outward bound, it carried The Shadow, still a prisoner. Escaping from one of the Python’s many Coils, he had fallen into the grip of another evil crew that served the same insidious master.

Yet The Shadow did not recognize his plight; nor had he learned the mission upon which this tug was bound. The tug Colonia was outward bound to aid in crime; to play its part in a fierce scheme of evil that The Python had prepared.