“Rupert never knew,” smiled Boswick. “But he knew me when I was younger—at the time when I first evolved the plan of hidden wealth. He had more confidence in me than you have, Tracy. You have known me only since I became old.”
The lawyer nodded. He realized that Houston Boswick spoke the truth. Nevertheless, his expression still betrayed doubt, and old Boswick was aware of it.
“Secrets,” remarked Tracy, “have a way of leaking out. Your constant effort to minimize the size of your estate could certainly excite suspicion.”
“I believe it has,” declared Boswick quietly.
“You do?” questioned Tracy, in momentary alarm. “What cause have you to think so?”
“This house,” explained Houston Boswick, “was closed while I was away. Drew Westling was living at his club. Headley paid occasional visits here to see that all was well. Upon my return, to-day, I noticed that certain things had been disturbed. I questioned both Drew and Headley.”
“What did they say?”
“Drew claimed to know nothing about it. Nor did Headley, until I pointed out certain traces which he had not noticed. He became alarmed then, Tracy. He believed, with me, that this house had been entered and searched from top to bottom.”
“Hm-m-m,” mused Tracy. “Was anything missing?”
“Nothing,” responded Houston Boswick. “That shows that a definite purpose was at work. Some one was looking for something that could not be found.”
“You are sure that the marauders were not successful?’
“Positive. They would never discover my secret, Tracy, although it lies within this house. Only my heir—whether he be Carter or Drew—can gain the clew to my hidden wealth.”
FARLAND TRACY was thoughtful. Houston Boswick’s discovery surprised the lawyer; now, he was trying to find a plausible explanation for this mysterious occurrence. The old man divined the attorney’s thoughts.
“Do not worry, Tracy,” he said dryly. “I do not care to know the identity of the instigator. It could be Drew Westling; it could be Headley; it could be some one entirely unknown to me. As you say, I have been almost over-emphatic in my efforts to make it appear that my supply of worldly possessions has shrunk to exceedingly small proportions.
“But what do I care now? Carter is returning. He will receive my visible wealth. Let him find the unknown treasure, if he has the initiative. Should any thing happen to prevent Carter’s return, the task will belong to Drew Westling.”
Farland Tracy shook his head in stern disapproval. This strange method of handling vast resources seemed atrocious to the lawyer.
“Suppose,” he presumed, “that Carter—or Drew, for that matter—lacks the initiative. Then what will become of the wealth?”
“It will remain where it is,” smiled Houston Boswick weakly. “Why not? I shall have no use for it. My heir will not deserve it. But do not fear that consequence, Tracy. Simply proceed with the simple duties governing the affairs of my estate. The rest will take care of itself.”
The old man’s gaze became prophetic. Farland Tracy was amazed at the change which filled those sad gray eyes. He listened while Houston Boswick spoke in a far-away voice.
“Carter will return,” presaged the old man. “I am sure of it now. He will find the wealth that is rightfully his. Drew Westling will subsist upon the income that I have provided for him.
“I know this, Tracy. I know it as positively as I know that I shall be dead when Carter reaches New York. I have made my plans. They will succeed, no matter what may oppose them.”
The old man was leaning weakly on his desk. With one hand, he made a feeble motion to indicate that the interview was ended. Farland Tracy arose and grasped the hand. Concern showed in the lawyer’s face.
NEITHER Tracy nor Boswick heard the slight motion that occurred outside the study door. Drew Westling, hearing footsteps on the stairs, had moved quickly along the hall.
Now came a rap at the door, followed by the even voice of Headley, Boswick’s serving man. The old man pointed to the door; Farland Tracy gave the order to enter. In came Headley.
“Mr. Tracy’s car is here, sir,” announced the servant.
“Good night,” said Houston Boswick. “Remember, Tracy. Remember. I rely upon you.”
“I shall remember,” replied the lawyer.
Farland Tracy’s last view of Houston Boswick showed the old man collapsed upon the desk, with Headley bending over him in apprehension. Going downstairs alone, the lawyer began to believe the old man’s statement that his death was near.
There was no sign of Drew Westling on the gloomy first floor. Farland Tracy donned coat and hat, and left the house. He found Holland standing by the door of the sedan. Tracy hurried into the car to escape the drizzle. He ordered the chauffeur to drive him home.
Lurking figures came from the side portico after the automobile had gone. They reached the shrubbery and lingered there for several minutes. Then came a low voice in the darkness:
“All right, Scully. It’s all off for tonight. Slide along. I’ll take care of myself.”
“O. K., Stacks. I thought this waiting would be a lot of hooey.”
The figure of Scully moved along the shrub-fringed drive, and was swallowed by the darkened mist. Stacks still remained, as though expecting some signal from the house. Finally, he followed in his companion’s course.
A dim shape emerged from the shelter of the side portico. It was the same vague figure that had clung to the wall outside of Houston Boswick’s study window. Weird and phantom-like, it took up the trail of “Stacks.”
The Shadow was following the chief of the two watchers. Into the darkness he had gone, trailing a man whose purpose here had been one of evil. Silently, mysteriously, a being of darkness was hounding a minion of crime.
The light went out above the front porch of Houston Boswick’s home. The old mansion loomed dull and forlorn amid the swirling drizzle. Its inmates no longer concerned The Shadow this night. Hidden watchers had remained unsummoned. Their work still belonged to the future. Representatives of a plotter who had sent them here, they had retired.
Out of the night had The Shadow come; into the night had he returned.
An unwitting spy was leading this master of darkness to an evil lair where a man higher up awaited!
CHAPTER III.
THE BIG SHOT.
“STACKS LODI is outside, chief.”
“Bring him in, Twister.”
The man who uttered the order was seated in a deep-cushioned chair, in the corner of a sumptuous apartment. His words were spoken in a harsh monotone that befitted his importance.
For the speaker was none other than “Hub” Rowley, big-time gambler and racketeer, a man whose disdain for the law had gained him fortune, and whose smooth and devious cunning had kept him aloof from the toils of the police.
Here, in his apartment on the twentieth floor of the Hotel Castillian, Hub Rowley dwelt in royal state. The portals of his abode were under the jurisdiction of “Twister” Edmonds, Hub’s bodyguard. The magnificent suite occupied half the floor.
Attired in garish dressing gown, cigarette in hand, and a half-emptied glass upon the table beside him, Hub Rowley appeared to be a gentleman of leisure.
His hardened face, with pudgy lips and thick black eyebrows, marked him otherwise. Yet Hub preferred to keep up the pretense. He considered himself an aristocrat, even though he bore the stamp of the underworld.
The door opened, and Twister, a wiry, leering fellow, ushered in the visitor. Stacks Lodi, wearing a rain-soaked overcoat and carrying a dripping hat, came into the presence of his chief.
Stacks was a suitable underling for such a master as Hub Rowley. Stocky, swarthy, and shrewd of eye, he was schemer rather than mobster, yet his deportment showed him to be a hardened product of the school of crime.
“Hello, Stacks,” greeted Rowley, in a methodical tone.
“Hello, Hub.” was the rejoinder. “Nothing doing tonight.”
&
nbsp; “So I supposed,” remarked the big shot. “Call Twister. He’ll get you a drink. I guess you can use it from the way you look.”
Twister, stepping out through the door, heard the order and promptly reappeared. Stacks Lodi threw his hat and coat on a table, and took a chair near Hub Rowley. Both men watched Twister Edmonds while the man uncorked a bottle and poured out a supply of liquor for the visitor.
IT was one of those minor incidents that happened to attract the attention of all concerned. Hence it was not surprising that none of the three observed what was happening at the half-opened door while their interest was centered on the bottles.
There, from the gloom of the dim outer room, came a tall, gliding shape that stopped when only partially in view. Gleaming eyes detected that the men in the room were looking elsewhere. Those same eyes spied a pair of curtains that led to another part of the apartment.
There was not an instant’s delay. A tall form clad in black moved boldly into Hub Rowley’s reception room. The Shadow stood in full view; then, with swift, silent stride, the black-garbed visitant glided toward the curtains beyond which lay darkness.
It was a cool, daring venture; and one that succeeded only by the fraction of a second. Hub Rowley, glancing up, noted that the door was ajar. He grunted his disapproval as his eyes swept about the room, stopping at the curtains just after The Shadow had vanished behind them.
“Close that door, Twister,” ordered the big shot. “Stay outside. I’ll let you know when I need you.”
Twister handed the drink to Stacks, and obsequiously obeyed Hub Rowley’s order. A few moments later, the big shot and his caller were alone in the room, neither one suspecting that a hidden listener was there to hear the conversation.
“Nothing to report, eh?” growled Hub.
Only that some fellow called to see the old man,” declared Stacks. “That was about nine o’clock The guy went away at ten. You told me that some fellow was coming there, and to lay low until after he had gone. That was the time for the tip-off; but it didn’t come.”
“I doubted that it would,” said Rowley, in a calm tone. “In fact, I felt rather sure that I would not need you tonight. Just the same, I wanted you there—in case—”
Stacks nodded.
“O. K. by me, Hub,” he affirmed. “Scully acted grouchy because he was getting soaked in the drizzle. I told him it was all in the night’s work. Sent him away when I figured all was off. Say, Hub”—Stacks paused to consider his words—“who was that bird that came to see the old man tonight? I wouldn’t be asking you to tell me if he hadn’t looked like some one I’ve seen before—”
“There’s no harm in your knowing,” interposed Hub Rowley. “That was Farland Tracy, the lawyer. He represents old Houston Boswick.”
“Now I remember him!” exclaimed Stacks. “He was the guy who came to see you about young Westling, Boswick’s nephew—the time the kid dropped ten grand in your uptown joint when—”
“Say Louie Gurtz’s joint,” corrected Hub in a cold tone.
“Well—Louie Gurtz’s joint,” repeated Stacks, with a sheepish grin. “I always call it that, Hub, except when I’m talking to you. Anyway, I remember Tracy now. He came to see you about getting back Westling’s I O U, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” admitted Hub Rowley, “but I still have it. Just holding it—that’s all. Westling knew he was in a jam, so he went to his uncle’s lawyer. When Tracy came to me, he asked me to go easy on the boy. I figured that if I didn’t, the old man would throw the nephew out, so I talked it over with Westling himself.
“That’s the way it looked to the kid. A throw-out—no dough for me. So I’m holding Westling until I want him, that’s all. I’ve worked the same way before.”
“What did the lawyer think about it?”
“Well, he’d like to have that I O U, all right. I’ve got a few more of Westling’s, besides. Just about twenty grand in the hole—that’s where the kid stands.”
“He’ll never have the dough to pay it.”
“That’s what Tracy told me. But I talked with Westling. His uncle’s estate is coming through one of these days. Twenty grand—with plenty of interest.”
“I guess you’re sitting pretty, Hub,” said Stacks admiringly. “But listen—if the dough’s sure, what’s the good of going through the place while the old man is away?”
“Stacks,” remarked Hub reprovingly, “sometimes it is not wise to know too much. That applies to you. Understand? However, just to ease your mind, I’ll ask you to recall my policy concerning every I O U that I hold. What do I do when one isn’t paid?”
“You collect it.”
“Right. Do I stop with the face amount?”
“No. You take plenty over.”
“How much over?”
“No limit. Whatever you can get.”
“All right,” concluded Hub. “Westling didn’t pay. His uncle’s lawyer told me that the old man wouldn’t pay. The old man’s got some dough that I know about. It’s likely to he Westling’s later on. If I can get it now, I will. If I can’t get it now, I’ll get it after Westling has it. The sooner the better—that’s all.”
THERE was silence. Stacks Lodi sensed the keenness of Hub Rowley’s words. Stacks, with Scully and others, had invaded Houston Boswick’s home not long ago. Their search for a treasure vault had brought no results.
But Stacks could see the probabilities. Somewhere, Hub Rowley must suspect, the old man had hidden wealth. Hub Rowley intended to get it.
Stacks shrugged his shoulders as he thought of Drew Westling. The young man was a weakling, and a spendthrift. What could he do to oppose Hub Rowley? In fact, it would be easy for Hub to force Drew Westling to do his bidding.
Stacks recalled measures that the big shot had adopted in the past. He had made his victims squeal; double-cross their friends; stoop to any foul measures to meet their gaming debts.
The telephone bell rang while Stacks Lodi was engaged in this soliloquy. With an easy sweep of his hand, Hub Rowley plucked the double-ended instrument from its hook and quietly spoke into the mouthpiece. Stacks listened intently.
“Hello… Yes…” Rowley’s voice was unperturbed. “Yes, I thought so… Nothing developed tonight, eh?…The old man looks bad, you say… His son is coming back?…When?…Where is…”
Consternation sudden came upon Hub Rowley’s thick brow. The big shot did not like this news concerning Carter Boswick’s return. Stacks Lodi had assumed—logically and correctly—that the term “old man” referred to Houston Boswick.
“All right….” Rowley was speaking again.. “Don’t worry…You just play the game…I’m holding those I O Us until the pudding’s baked, that’s all… Sure, I understand. If the son gets the tip-off the old man talked about, it leaves you in a hole…. Well—there’s ways of handling that…. Left Montevideo, eh? What boat? Yes… Steamship Southern Star…. Havana… Say, just keep mum. Leave it to me…”
Hub Rowley finished his conversation and laid the phone in the cradle. He studied Stacks Lodi thoughtfully; then asked a pointed question.
“How would you like to play the boats again, Stacks?”
“I wouldn’t care for it,” said Stacks suavely.
“That’s where you got your name, wasn’t it?” purred Hub. “Stacks Lodi—the smoothest card sharper in the business. You can stack a full house, deal bottoms and seconds—”
“But on the boats no more, Hub.”
The big shot smiled.
“They made it pretty hot for you, didn’t they, Stacks?” he questioned. “Got to know you too well. Faro dealing in a gambling joint became a healthier job.”
“They knew me on every first-class ship between here and Europe. They’ve got nothing on me, you understand; but the name “Stacks” has stuck. They called me that because of the way I handled the pasteboards, and it’s suicide for me to try that racket any longer—”
“How about the South American boats?” interposed Hub.
“No
gravy on them,” was Stacks Lodi’s verdict.
“But do they know you?” questioned Hub.
“No,” responded Stacks. “I’d be as safe as a person aboard one of those packets. But there’d be nobody to trim unless a Paraguayan ambassador or some such bird showed up to be plucked.”
“I think a boat trip would do you good,” nodded Hub Rowley, with a quiet smile. “Just a little tester—that’s all. Suppose, Stacks, that you hop down to Havana by air. Spend a few days around the casino. Pick a few friends there and invite them to travel up to New York with you by steamship.”
“On any boat?” Stacks was wondering at Hub’s purpose.
“No,” responded the big shot. “Not any boat, Stacks. A particular boat— the Southern Star of the Panorama Line.”
Hub Rowley continued to smile as a sudden light appeared on Stacks Lodi’s face. The suave henchman was connecting this suggestion with the big shot’s telephone conversation.
THE smile faded, and Hub Rowley became suddenly grim and emphatic.
“Listen, Stacks,” he said, in a firm tone, “I’ve got an important job for you. I’m counting on you to do it—and I’m giving you enough reason for it. Keep mum about what I’m telling you.”
“Big rackets are my business. I don’t go in for small stuff. Whatever I do, I do right. Savvy? That’s enough to let you know that I’m not playing old Houston Boswick for lunch money. I’m after plenty, and I don’t mind you knowing it.
“I had things the way I wanted them. The old man away at first—ready to kick in now that he’s back—young Westling sewed up so he can’t move. But I haven’t been able to locate what I’m after. I wanted to grab the gravy right away, and let the howl follow, if there is one. I’ve seen too many good lays spoiled by a bad break.
“Right now, the bad break is coming. It just shows that my hunch was right. I’ve got dope that Carter Boswick—the old man’s son—is coming back to America. He’d been gone so long, it looked like he might be dead. If he gets here, Westling will be out. No money—no pay—no chance for me to pick up the dough without a fight on my hands.
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