Scarcely had the taxi drawn away before a man stepped into view and beckoned to two others who were a short distance away. Herrando was summoning Cassalta and Bolano.
In a few quick words, he explained what he had heard—the destination chosen by Carter Boswick. Gleaming smiles greeted the revelation. Calling another cab, the three South Americans entered and gave instructions to be driven to the Barcelona Club, in the old city. No one was in sight when Herrando gave the order, but the words were loud enough to be heard in the darkness that lurked beyond the pavement where the cab had stopped.
Meanwhile, Carter Boswick, in the cab ahead, was finding his ride most intriguing. After rolling along broad boulevards, the taxi entered an area of crooked, winding streets, among picturesque buildings that had stood here for years—some, perhaps, for centuries.
Accustomed to life in South America, familiar with the cities of Buenos Aires and Montevideo, Carter Boswick, with his knowledge of Spanish, had no qualms whatever about visiting a district so little frequented by Americans. When his cab pulled up before an archway that was blocked by an iron-grilled gate, Carter Boswick felt the intriguing appeal of the unusual.
The cab driver spoke to a man who was standing by the gate. He was explaining that this Americano wished to enter. Carter followed with a few words of his own. The gate opened, and he walked through the archway into a patio with a little fountain in the center.
Passing beyond the fountain, Carter ascended a flight of steps and came to a large room that once must have been the chief gaming hall of the club. It was surrounded with small, uncurtained booths; and the center portion of the floor had scattered tables. The place had been changed into a restaurant.
Carter took his seat at one of these tables and surveyed the motley persons assembled there. Grimy, sordid faces showed members of Havana’s underworld; but mingled with them were persons of a higher social plane.
Carter noted that the more respectable people seemed to segregate themselves in the little booths at the sides. He remembered what the cab driver had said about revolutionary activities.
EVIDENTLY this place was tolerated because it enabled the police to keep tabs on the meetings of persons who were under ban. Carter knew that Cuba was a republic which seethed with an undercurrent of repressed animosity toward the existing administration. He imagined that some of the persons here were government spies.
His own experience of intrigues and counter-plots which he had found existing in Buenos Aires and Montevideo enabled him to identify this former club immediately.
Here, Carter felt, one sat just above the crater of a quieted volcano. One untoward incident—a cry of revolution—an accusation of a police spy—an unexpected brawl—such would suffice to create tumult.
Carter noted a huge stairway at the side of the room. It started at one corner, ran upward diagonally along the wall, and terminated in a balcony that made three sides of a square. He could see little doorways up there; and he sensed that they marked the entrances of private dining rooms or gambling apartments.
While Carter was watching, a Spaniard of dignified appearance entered and went up the stairs. A few moments later, a handful of ruffians came in and scattered themselves about at different tables.
Carter noticed that the gentleman entered one of the upstairs rooms. He caught a few words in Spanish uttered at another table. They gave him an inkling. This man was a former senator, no longer in political favor. His purpose here might be a secret meeting; these ruffians were, in all likelihood, a bodyguard.
Interested in the buzz that passed through the room, Carter did not observe the three men who entered and sidled over toward his table. They were the trio sent by Stacks Lodi.
With mutual design, they reached a table only a short distance from where Carter was sitting, but behind his back.
The room was quieting when one of these men arose. It was Herrando, the one who had appointed himself a leader. Leering as he stared at Carter’s back, the man caught the attention of various persons in the place.
Carter, unaware of Herrando’s presence, saw the scattered ruffians stare suspiciously in his direction. The next moment, he was seized roughly by the shoulder, and loud words of accusation were hissed in his ear.
“Americano! Bah!” Herrando’s words came in a venomous voice. “You are a traitor! You have come here to spy—”
Like a flash, Carter was on his feet. He swung a swift punch in Herrando’s direction, and sent the man sprawling. Cassalta and Bolano were leaping forward.
In the gloomy light of the big hall, Carter could not distinguish their faces—he knew only that they were enemies. Plucking up the light table beside him, he flung it against the pair, and saw the two men sprawl backward. Then, with a mad rush, he ran toward the door, seeking escape.
Escape was not so easy. Carter’s quick response had done exactly what Herrando had hoped. It had excited wild alarm, and had apparently proven the truth of the accusation.
The scattered ruffians were on their feet, ready to block the flight of this false Americano. A spark of flame had been set to the powder barrel of lurking suspicion.
A machete gleamed as one of Havana’s mobsmen leaped forward to end Carter Boswick’s dash. The American side-stepped the ruffian’s swing, and planted a swift blow upon the Cuban’s cheek. The machete flew across the floor; the man sprawled and started to draw a revolver from his belt.
Seeing his intention, Carter fell upon him. The action was a wise one. Just as Carter yanked the gun from the downed man’s grasp, other revolvers flashed. Loud cries sounded, and startled men came from the booths to join the attack in which Carter Boswick was the focal point.
Rising, Carter pointed the revolver and fired toward a ruffian who was aiming at him. The shot went wide. With a snarl, the man moved his finger against the trigger.
But the report which followed did not come from the Cuban’s gun. Instead, it issued from the door that led to the patio. It was the terrific roar of an automatic.
The Cuban sprawled upon the floor, and all the others turned quickly to greet the source of the unexpected attack.
Just within the doorway stood a tall figure in black. A sinister form, garbed in flowing black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat, The Shadow had arrived in time to save the doomed American!
Each hand, covered with a thin black glove, held a powerful automatic. Sharp, burning eyes glowed beneath the brim of the slouch hat. The Shadow’s perfect aim had crippled Carter Boswick’s antagonist.
Realizing that aid had come, Carter dropped almost to the floor. Crouching, he headed for the nearest corner.
The Shadow had diverted the attack. Fiendish cries arose as the ruffians and others of their ilk turned toward the invader. Revolvers flashed and scattered shots broke forth.
The reports of The Shadow’s automatics sounded above the din. Stabs of flame burst from the huge .45s. Hostile weapons seemed useless. Bullets struck the wall beside The Shadow, but his tall form seemed to weave back and forth with uncanny precision.
The hasty aimers had no luck; those who were more deliberate never gained the chance they sought. For The Shadow’s unerring guns delivered their shots at the ruffians who were coolly seeking to slay him.
Gun arms dropped as The Shadow’s bullets found them. Evil-faced killers staggered and dropped to the floor before the thunder of The Shadow’s wrath.
The briefness of the fight was surprising. The Shadow was aiming to wound, not to kill; and that very policy brought quick results. The cries of the crippled men were appalling to their comrades.
There were doors in the wall away from the spot where The Shadow stood. Realizing the power that lurked in The Shadow’s weapons, some of the fighters began a mad dash for safety.
The flight stimulated a general effort toward escape. Many of the denizens of this place were fearful of consequences, should they be discovered here.
Scurrying fugitives headed for the path that led away from this danger zone. Th
e Shadow’s guns spoke only at intervals, when some more daring ruffian would turn in an effort to shoot him down.
Suddenly, the black-gloved fingers opened. The automatics, their bullets spent, clattered to the floor. In a twinkling, those hands, reaching beneath the folds of the black cloak, produced another brace of guns.
The gesture was sufficient. With wild cries, the last of the fugitives hurried through the doorways, and did not return.
Three men, however, had avoided The Shadow’s shots with fell design. Those three were Stacks Lodi’s men. Balked in their first attack on Carter Boswick, the trio had left the American in the hands of the ruffians.
With The Shadow’s intervention, Herrando had immediately feared the consequences of the riot that he had begun. With a quick gesture to Cassalta and Bolano, he had gained the long flight of stairs, and the other two had followed him.
Upon the balcony, the three were waiting. They were alone, for there was another exit from the second floor; and all upstairs had taken it. The trio remained, with revolvers in their grasp, awaiting a moment of opportunity.
Carter Boswick, back against the wall below, did not offer the suitable target that they wanted, but a strange freak of chance brought him into range.
As the last of the departing patrons were scurrying from the rear doors, whistles sounded from beyond the gate outside the patio. The shrill sounds signaled the arrival of the police.
Carter Boswick, acting upon impulse, sought a quick exit. He sprang to the stairs, and hurried upward, at the same time calling out a warning to the black-clad rescuer at the outer door.
THE SHADOW’S eyes gleamed as they turned upward. He saw Carter Boswick’s intention, and realized that the American was trying to show him a way to safety. The Shadow’s laugh resounded through the room, a burst of triumph that rang out in the face of danger.
To The Shadow, the invasion of the police was no more a menace than the flight of the panic-stricken cowards who were now scurrying through the doors beyond. But there was a note in The Shadow’s mirth that betokened more.
His keen eyes saw that Carter Boswick, who thought himself safe, but feared for The Shadow, was actually the one who was about to encounter danger.
Three figures were rising to block the young man’s path. Foremost was Herrando; behind him, ready to join in the assassination, were Cassalta and Bolano.
As he faced the top of the stairs, Carter Boswick stopped short. Almost before his eyes was the gleaming muzzle of a revolver. Herrando, leaning coolly upon the newel post of the balcony balustrade, was about to deliver a fatal shot.
Carter’s gun was in his hand—the weapon that he had seized from the ruffian whom he had downed in combat. It was too late to use it now. He had run into certain death. The barrel of a threatening revolver scarcely a yard from his face; The Shadow, his rescuer, rods away, by the outer door!
Instinctively, Carter was sure that The Shadow could not aid him now, due to the distance of the range. The same thought had occurred to Herrando. It accounted for the South American’s boldness.
But neither Carter nor Herrando had reckoned with The Shadow’s might.
In that moment of tense suspense, when Herrando’s finger wavered on the trigger, The Shadow’s right hand acted. The same hand had raised its automatic in time with the lifting of the head above it. The automatic spoke. One single shot.
Herrando’s body twisted. A cry came from the assassin’s evil lips. His murderous form toppled against the balustrade. The ornamental parapet failed beneath his sagging weight. Decayed wood crackled; the rail broke, and Herrando shot forward with a wild shriek, plunging headlong to the floor below.
The Shadow’s thrust shattered the morale of the other two villains. Cassalta and Bolano did not wait to learn of Herrando’s fate. The unexpected stroke was proof of The Shadow’s power, even at this distance.
Carter Boswick, raising his revolver as Herrando fell, was also a menace close at hand. Instead of raising their guns, the two South Americans plunged madly into the doorway of a room behind them. Carter Boswick fired futile shots at their retreating forms.
With the foiled assassins gone, Carter looked below to see what The Shadow was about to do. He saw one black arm raised; he noted the pointing finger that bade him to follow the route which the fleeing pair had taken. Carter hesitated a moment; then, as the stern finger continued to point, the young man obeyed.
He found that the room into which his enemies had run had an opening to an outside corridor. He followed this and came to a stairway. It led him to an outer doorway on a narrow, deserted street.
This was the way that all upstairs had taken. No one had remained in the vicinity. No police had arrived here as yet. Pocketing the revolver, Carter Boswick moved rapidly along, confident that he could find his way to the Southern Star unmolested.
BACK in the main room of the old Barcelona Club, The Shadow stood alone. The iron gate was clanging as police sought to break their way into the patio. Calmly sliding his two braces of automatics beneath the folds of his cloak, The Shadow moved among the tables until he reached the spot where Herrando lay.
The murderous villain was dead. The Shadow’s timely shot had not killed, for it had been designed to prevent Herrando from using his own weapon, and The Shadow had picked the man’s right shoulder as the most accessible spot. But the plunge from the balcony had finished The Shadow’s work. Herrando’s neck was broken.
A terrific clang came from the distance as the iron gate broke before the attacks of the enraged police. The Shadow’s laugh seemed to join in the echoes of the clatter. There was a reason now why The Shadow did not want his presence known to these invaders.
With strident mirth still ringing from his lips, the black-garbed fighter stooped and picked up the body of Herrando as one would lift the form of a small child. With his burden slung across his shoulder, The Shadow strode through one of the farther doorways.
When the police arrived, a minute later, they found the hall deserted, save for a few wounded ruffians who still lay among the tables. These were attackers whom The Shadow had crippled so effectively that they had been unable to join the others in hasty flight.
The Shadow, himself, was gone, leaving no token of his departure. Somewhere amid the narrow streets of old Havana, he was carrying away the dead body of the final victim.
The Shadow had prevented assassination tonight. In so doing, he had defeated a horde of Cuban apaches, and had spread terror among the evildoers of the island’s capital.
The Shadow’s work was not yet ended. He had not prevented the danger that was due to come. How the intended murder of Carter Boswick could still be thwarted was the next problem that The Shadow must meet.
Carter Boswick might believe himself safe aboard the Southern Star. The Shadow knew that the menace still hung over the homeward-bound New Yorker. When danger ruled again, The Shadow would meet it, by craft as well as might.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SHADOW’S STRATEGY.
THE Southern Star was plowing northward. The first night out of Havana, new passengers were making friends, and old ones were renewing acquaintances. Only the more experienced seafarers were in the smoking room, however, as the weather was rough, and the rolling of the ship was none too pleasant.
Two men—apparently chance acquaintances—were seated in a corner of the smoking room. One was Cassalta; the other Bolano. Each had picked up his ticket without reporting to Stacks Lodi. This was their first meeting, and they had not yet interviewed their chief.
Bolano was raising a glass of liquor to his lips. Suddenly be stopped, and his hand trembled. Cassalta looked in the direction of his companion’s eyes. There, approaching the table, was their fellow villain of the night before—Herrando.
Both the seated men repressed gasps of astonishment as Herrando joined them. They noted that their returned comrade was pale; that his right arm was held stiffly at his side. But he smiled in the villainous fashion of Herrando.
/> “You thought I was dead, eh?” he questioned, in Spanish. “Well, comrades, you were wrong!”
“But you were shot.”
Herrando still smiled as he heard Bolans’s muffled exclamation.
“In the shoulder,” he said calmly. “A flesh wound—that was all.”
“You fell through the rail?”
“Yes. A nasty tumble. It shook me terribly, but did not injure me.”
“But the man at the door?”
“He fled. The police were coming. I, too, was able to escape. It was most fortunate.”
A pause followed. Bolano and Cassalta gulped their drinks in silence, wondering at the miraculous escape which Herrando had made. Then their newly arrived comrade spoke again.
“I have seen Senor Lodi,” he announced quietly. “I talked with him but an hour ago. He gave me a message. He does not wish to talk with any of us at present.”
The others nodded. They knew that this policy was a wise one.
“The weather is rough tonight,” continued Herrando. “It is lessening, so the captain has said. Therefore, tonight would be best for the—let us say accident—that we propose. I am confident that the Americano will not recognize us, if we keep well away from him. I spoke to Senor Lodi about last night’s mishap, and he agrees.
“Senor Boswick has an outside cabin. It is likely that he will come to the smoking room tonight. Afterward, he will probably go by the door over yonder. When he shows such signs of departure, I shall precede him. You, my comrades, will follow.”
More nods of agreement. Herrando arose to go away, giving his last words of instruction.
“Senor Lodi will be here to give the signal for each of us. Keep apart, senores.
With that, Herrando went across the smoking room. Cassalta and Bolano separated. The three were apart and obscurely situated, when Carter Boswick entered the smoking room. Stacks Lodi came later, and joined a group in a card game.
The gambler was wise. He did not care if he might be recognized as a card sharp. The offense would be passed over; and it would free him from connection with the other work.
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