The Shadow Double-Novel Pulp Reprints #45: "Terror Island" & "City of Ghosts"
( Shadow - 109 )
Maxwell Grant
"Crime does not pay". The Shadow knows! The Master of Darkness journeys to the sunny South to unmask hidden plotters. The Shadow confronts a European mastermind of evil to end the murderous menace that lurks on Terror Island.
TERROR ISLAND
Maxwell Grant
CHAPTER I. A CROOK IS TRAPPED
AN elderly man was seated, stoop-shouldered, at a massive desk. Behind him was a closed safe; to his left, a pair of French windows, wide open, that led to a screened veranda. The room was lighted, for it was after dusk; and there was a reason for the open windows, because the night was excessively warm. When occasional breezes came, they floated in from the veranda.
The light from the room repaid that service by casting its soft glow beyond the outside screen. The illumination revealed the long, crinkly leafed branches of palm trees against the porch.
The man at the desk was James Tolwig, a New York millionaire. The room in which he sat was the study of his spacious Florida bungalow. Though less than a dozen miles from Miami, James Tolwig enjoyed a most secluded location; and that fact pleased him. It was one reason why he had chosen to stay in Florida during the off season.
James Tolwig's forehead was furrowed in a puzzled frown. The elderly man was studying a telegram; he stroked his chin as he read the message. The wire was from Havana; its message simply read:
POSTPONE PURCHASE UNTIL NINE O'CLOCK.
S.
There were footsteps from the hallway. Tolwig pushed the telegram beneath a book; he looked up to see a stolid-faced servant enter, bringing a tray with two tall glasses. Ice clinked as the servant approached the desk. Tolwig gestured.
"Place the tray here, Lovett," he ordered, in a testy tone, "then tell Mr. Bagland that I want to see him. Where is Bagland, anyway? Bah! He claims to be an efficient secretary, but he is never about when I need him -"
Tolwig cut his denunciation short as a tall, smiling-faced man stepped in from the veranda. The arrival was the missing secretary; out for a stroll, Bagland had arrived just in time to hear his employer's words. Tolwig indulged in a slight smile of his own; he motioned for Bagland to be seated.
Lovett stopped at the door; there, the servant turned about and adjusted his rumpled white jacket. He was waiting for further orders. Tolwig dismissed him with a wave of his hand. As soon as the servant's footsteps had faded in the hallway, Tolwig pointed to the door.
Without a word, Bagland arose and closed the door; the secretary came back to the desk and picked up one of the tall glasses. Tolwig took the other glass.
APPARENTLY, Tolwig and his secretary were on most friendly terms, despite the millionaire's harsh statement a few minutes before. As further proof of their accord, Tolwig produced the telegram that he had hidden from Lovett's view. Handing the wire to Bagland, Tolwig spoke.
"This arrived while you were out," stated the millionaire quietly. "What do you make of it, Bagland?"
The secretary studied the telegram. He smiled.
"You must have talked too much," decided Bagland, "when you made that short trip to Havana a few days ago."
"I did mention my intended purchase," nodded Tolwig, "but I did not state from whom I intended to buy. I said nothing concerning George Dalavan.
"Neither does this telegram," observed Bagland. "Probably the man who sent it has never heard of Dalavan. But he may know about the Lamballe tiara; if so, he knows that someone intends to swindle you."
"Unless the telegram is a hoax," rejoined Tolwig. "What should I do about it, Bagland?"
For reply, the secretary crumpled the telegram and threw it into the wastebasket.
"Forget it," he declared. "We already have the goods on Dalavan. We can handle him ourselves. It is after half past eight; Dalavan is already overdue. If we happen to wait until nine o'clock, all right. If not -"
Bagland paused. A bell was tingling; Lovett's footsteps answered, outside the door. The servant was on his way to the front door to admit the visitor. Bagland's smile broadened; in low tones, the secretary whispered:
"George Dalavan."
TWO minutes later, Lovett ushered the visitor into the study. George Dalavan was a man of heavy build, brisk in manner and of military appearance. His hair was short clipped; so was the black mustache that he wore. His whole face was ruddy; the color was natural and not the effect of sunburn. Most conspicuous, however, was the narrowness of his eyes.
They peered sharply from each side of a thin-bridged nose, as Dalavan darted a look toward Bagland, who was now seated at a table in the corner. Then Dalavan concentrated upon Tolwig; he gave a cheery smile as he reached across the desk to shake hands with the millionaire.
"I've brought it," announced Dalavan, in a smooth tone. He lifted a square-shaped suitcase and placed it upon the desk. "The tiara once owned by the Princess de Lamballe, favorite of Marie Antoinette."
Opening the case, Dalavan removed a glittering coronet. Diamonds gleamed brightly in the light. Tolwig received the tiara with both hands; he nodded as he studied the magnificent crown-like object.
"I saw this tiara once before," remarked Tolwig, dryly. "That was in Paris, when the tiara was the property of the Duke of Abragoyne. I doubted that he would ever part with it."
"You know those French nobility," returned Dalavan. "They hang on to their jewels, until they go broke. Then they part with them for a song. Fifty thousand dollars is small money for a piece like this one, Mr. Tolwig."
"Quite true," agreed Tolwig. He opened a desk drawer and drew out a sheaf of bills. "Here is the exact amount. Count the money, Dalavan, and give me a receipt for it."
Dalavan counted the money, which was all in bills of high denomination. He threw a restless glance toward Bagland. The secretary's back was turned; for Bagland was busy at his table.
Dalavan reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. Hurriedly, he thrust it out of sight; found another sheet and used it to write a receipt. Tolwig received the written paper and slowly shook his head.
"This is not sufficient," declared the millionaire. "The receipt merely states that you have received fifty thousand dollars for a jeweled tiara. You should specify more than that, Dalavan. You should call it the Lamballe tiara."
"Why?" laughed Dalavan. "You, yourself know that it is the Lamballe tiara."
"Suppose," conjectured Tolwig, "that I should show the tiara to the Duke of Abragoyne? Suppose that he should tell me that it had been stolen from him?"
DALAVAN'S lips tightened; then the mustached man demanded:
"Why should you show the tiara to the duke?"
"Ah!" exclaimed Tolwig. "You admit, then, that the tiara was stolen?"
"I admit nothing, Mr. Tolwig. I have sold numerous curios. People never question where and how I obtained them."
Dalavan paused, then resumed in a purring tone.
"Listen, Mr. Tolwig," he urged, "you're not the first big buyer that I've reasoned with. You want this tiara. You'd never have had a dog's chance to get it, if someone hadn't lifted it from the French duke's strong-box. It's yours now; bought and paid for, at less than half its value.
"I've convinced others before you. You've heard, no doubt, of Cholmley Clayborne, the big steel man from Chicago. He bought a swell tapestry that came straight from Buckingham Palace. He's keeping mum. Tyler Loman, the movie magnate, bought a collection of rare gold coins from me. They came from the
Munich Museum and he knows it. That doesn't matter.
"I didn't steal this tiara. I saved it. The fellows who had it were going to smash it up and sell the chunks. What you are actually doing, Mr. Tolwig, is to save this fine tiara from destruction. You should thank me for giving you the opportunity."
Dalavan's smooth talk had no effect upon Tolwig. Hunched behind his desk, the millionaire clasped both hands and tilted his head. Quietly, he put a single question:
"Then you admit that the tiara was stolen?"
"Sure," returned Dalavan. "I admit it. I've told you what other collectors do. They keep what they know to themselves -"
James Tolwig gestured an interruption. He swung about in his swivel chair, snapped quick words to the corner where Bagland was seated. The secretary spun about; his face showed a wise smile.
Before Dalavan could guess what was due, Bagland pulled a revolver from his coat pocket and leveled it straight at the visitor.
"You have met Bagland before," chuckled Tolwig, to Dalavan. "You took him for what he pretended to be - an ordinary private secretary, and a rather dull one. Actually, he is a private investigator, who has been looking for gentlemen of your ilk."
"I'm not such a bad secretary, either," added Bagland, using his free hand to hold a sheaf of papers in front of Dalavan's ugly eyes. "I've taken shorthand notes on all this conversation, Dalavan. All right, Mr. Tolwig" - Bagland nodded briskly to the millionaire - "you can call the police."
Chuckling, glad that he had trapped a rogue, James Tolwig reached for the telephone on his desk. To gain the telephone, his hand was forced to brush a small desk clock that showed the time as ten minutes before nine.
Tolwig scarcely noticed the clock. Hence he did not think of the telegram that had specified the hour of nine. Even if he had recalled the telegram, it would scarcely have mattered at this moment. James Tolwig had ignored that message, to act on his own initiative.
The time was past when proper recognition of that telegram could have proven of vital value to James Tolwig.
CHAPTER II. A POSTPONED TRAIL
IF ever a man behaved as a cornered rat, George Dalavan displayed the part when James Tolwig placed a hand upon the telephone receiver. All of Dalavan's smoothness wilted; the fellow cowered away from the desk and raised trembling hands, as he looked toward the muzzle of Bagland's gun.
"You can't arrest me!" whined Dalavan. "I've done nothing. I sold you the tiara. That's all."
"That was enough!" announced Tolwig, sternly. "Your racket is finished Dalavan."
The narrow-eyed rogue turned his beady gaze toward Bagland; in despairing fashion, Dalavan pleaded with the investigator.
"Don't turn me over!" he gasped. "Maybe - maybe I can help you out with other facts! Give me a chance, Bagland!"
The investigator nodded. Tolwig let the telephone receiver drop back upon its hook. With a quick, wise look toward Bagland, Tolwig returned the nod, then leaned forward to hear what Dalavan might have to say. The crook started in with the promised facts.
"This racket is bigger than you think!" blurted Dalavan. "It goes into millions of dollars! I'm only a front for it - sort of a mouthpiece. I freeze the stuff that's hot. You've probably guessed that, Bagland."
"I have," returned Bagland, steadily. Then, to Tolwig, the investigator added: "We'll hear all that he has to say. This stolen tiara represents but one item, Mr. Tolwig. The racket must involve huge robberies abroad; some smuggling system in addition; a perfect hideout, where the stuff is stored."
Dalavan nodded at each point. Bagland saw it and made a final statement.
"Behind it all," declared Bagland, "must be a master crook, far more dangerous than you, Dalavan. Wait a moment! I have an idea!"
Planting his notebook on the desk, Bagland stepped forward. Dalavan's arms went higher; Bagland shoved the revolver's muzzle against the crook's ribs. Reaching into Dalavan's pocket, Bagland whisked out the piece of paper that the crook had so hurriedly thrust from view, just before writing his receipt.
"Take a look at this, Mr. Tolwig."
WHILE Bagland continued to cover Dalavan at close range, Tolwig studied the paper. It was a piece of stationery; it bore no writing, but at the top was an embossed seal. The imprint represented a pair of gryphons, each supporting a side of a white shield.
Bagland managed a side glance that enabled him to see the gryphon shield. Facing Dalavan, he snapped the question:
"Who did that come from?"
"The big shot," returned Dalavan. "He used it, as sort of a coat of arms. Perhaps you'd like to know his name, and where he could be found?"
"I would!" snapped out Bagland. "You're going to spill it, Dalavan, without getting any promises from us -"
A sharp interruption came from Tolwig. Looking up from the sheet of paper with the gryphon shield, the millionaire saw straight beyond Bagland and Dalavan.
Tolwig's eyes caught a flash of white in the doorway; with it, the glitter of an aiming revolver. Tolwig's cry was a warning; heeding it, Bagland spun about. The investigator was too late.
A revolver barked. It was aimed straight at Bagland. The man who gripped the gun was Tolwig's own servant, Lovett. The white-coated arrival had taken accurate aim. He fired a second shot; a third. A fourth was unnecessary.
The first bullet had dropped Bagland; the other shots were vicious additions that Lovett gave to insure Bagland's prompt death. Staring across the desk, Tolwig saw the investigator twist in agony and lie still.
Madly, Tolwig bounded from behind the desk. In his left hand, he clutched the sheet of paper with the gryphon shield. With his right, he made a wild grab for the revolver that had dropped from Bagland's hand. Tolwig was a perfect target for Lovett; but the servant added no bullets. It was Dalavan who acted.
The mustached man whipped out a gun of his own. He let Tolwig get hold of Bagland's revolver; then with a vicious snarl, Dalavan opened fire. At a four-foot range, he delivered three bullets into Tolwig's body. The effect of those shots were immediate. James Tolwig sprawled dead across Bagland's body.
George Dalavan's ruddy face showed demonish as the murderer leaned within the focused area of the desk lamp. With eager hands, Dalavan snatched the Lamballe tiara and placed that treasure back into its case. Bundling the fifty thousand dollars, Dalavan added it with the tiara. His hand slid against the desk clock; the timepiece had almost reached nine o'clock.
It was not that fact, however, that made Dalavan turn about. The murderer knew nothing of the telegram that Tolwig had received from Havana. Dalavan's ears caught a faint sound. On that account, the murderer swung toward Lovett.
"Did you hear that?" demanded Dalavan, in a tense tone. "It sounded like a motor, somewhere outside the house."
Lovett listened, then shook his head.
"Nobody would be going by here," remarked the accomplice. "What's more, the main road is too far for anyone to have heard the shots."
"Was Tolwig expecting any other visitors?"
"None that I know about. I kept close tabs on him, like you told me to. There was a telegram that came for him, from Havana -"
"That wouldn't mean anything."
DALAVAN'S tenseness lessened. The murderer was confident that Lovett had kept good check on Tolwig. Dalavan had used Lovett as the inside man before; it was a precaution that he always adopted. The fact that Lovett had not learned that Bagland was an investigator did not detract from Dalavan's opinion. He guessed that Bagland had been careful enough to keep his real identity a secret.
"You'd better slide out and take a gander," decided Dalavan. "Peek from the front door; if anyone comes in by the gate, meet them like nothing happened. Tell them Tolwig is out."
Lovett nodded. He walked from the study. Dalavan snatched up Bagland's notes, put them into the case that held the tiara and the money. He found the receipt that he had given Tolwig; he put that with the other objects.
Looking toward the bodies, Dalavan grinned. He stooped and carefully placed his fingers u
pon the sheet of stationery that still rested in Tolwig's grasp. Dalavan was prepared to pluck away that bit of evidence.
Dalavan's right hand held its revolver; his left was on the paper that bore the imprint of the gryphon shield. Suddenly, his motion ceased. Rigid in his stooped position, Dalavan listened. With a sudden snarl of alarm, he spun about, to face the opened French windows that led to the porch.
Dalavan was too late in his move.
On the threshold stood a figure that froze the murderer. Dalavan's lips widened; his arms were chilled to numbness. His right hand released its hold upon the revolver; the weapon clanked to the floor. Dalavan's left hand opened also; but it dropped nothing, for the murderer had postponed his effort to pluck away the paper that Tolwig's fingers held in a death grip.
There was ample reason for Dalavan's new rigidity.
The figure on the threshold was clad in black - a cloaked arrival whose identity was unmistakable. To Dalavan, a crook by trade, the presence of that weird intruder was more formidable than a squad of police.
Eyes burned from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Below was a thin-gloved fist that held a leveled automatic. Light showed the barrel of the .45, a looming tube that was ready to deliver withering blasts. The being on the threshold was The Shadow.
Superfoe of crime, The Shadow had learned of Tolwig's intended purchase. The Shadow had sent the telegram from Havana, confident that Tolwig would heed the warning and delay the purchase of the tiara until his unknown advisor had arrived. Tolwig had not done so; The Shadow saw the result as he surveyed the two bodies at Dalavan's feet.
SLOWLY, The Shadow stepped in from the threshold. Shivering; Dalavan backed away, almost stumbling over the bodies. The Shadow saw the object that the murderer had tried to gain; that telltale paper in Tolwig's grasp. He also spied the packed case on the desk. With a gliding sidestep, The Shadow edged between Dalavan and the desk; his move forced the murderer toward the front door of the room.
Dalavan's lips moved helplessly. With Tolwig and Bagland, Dalavan had staged a bluff; but with The Shadow, his fear was unfeigned. Dalavan knew why The Shadow had cornered him toward the door. The Shadow suspected an accomplice, such as Lovett. He would be ready for the man when he returned. Dalavan saw The Shadow's left hand go to his cloak, to draw forth a second automatic.
The Shadow Double-Novel Pulp Reprints #45: Terror Island & City of Ghosts s-109 Page 1
