Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  changes of policy on the part of our neighbors. Hence I, alone, have been entrusted with the obtaining of

  the necessary funds.

  “All that has been covered in the proposal given you, although it has not been stated in so many words. It

  is our desire to bring the final arrangement into the hands of two men—myself as representative of

  Santander; yourself, Mr. Hendrix, as representative of the American interests.

  “There are two vital points that I can put as questions. First, are you convinced that the Santander

  proposal is genuine? Second, are you convinced that I am the authorized agent of my country?”

  “We feel that both those points have been established,” replied Hendrix.

  “That should be sufficient,” announced Legira, boldly challenging. “Hence I feel justified in asking for your

  decision. Are you willing to make the payment of ten million dollars?”

  “We are,” declared Hendrix.

  Legira smiled triumphantly. From now on the situation was in his hands. He saw that Hendrix was about

  to ask another question. Shrewdly, Legira took action to forestall it.

  “You are worried about the arrangements,” he said. “There is no cause for alarm. As accredited

  representative of Santander, I can avoid all difficulties. It now rests between you and myself, Mr.

  Hendrix.

  “To avoid all complications, the proposal is that you should have the entire amount in your possession,

  ready for delivery when I request it. Once it is given to me, your responsibility ends and mine begins.”

  “That's just it, Mr. Legira,” interposed a puffy-faced man near the head of the table. “It's the irregular

  way of giving you the money—”

  “Do you have confidence in Mr. Hendrix?” queried Legira promptly.

  “Certainly,” said the puffy man.

  “Are you confident that my government has full trust in me?” was the consul's next question.

  “Yes,” came the reply.

  Legira simply shrugged his shoulders. Better than any words, the action carried home his thought. Nods

  of approval came amid a buzzing murmur. It was clear that Legira had good reason for reducing the

  transaction into terms of individuals.

  “When Mr. Hendrix has the money,” purred Legira, “all will be in his capable hands. I, in turn, shall know

  the proper time to send the millions to Santander. Then, quietly, with avoidance of publicity, I shall obtain

  the money from Mr. Hendrix, and see to its safe delivery in my native land. When the world learns that

  great American interests have supported Santander, the entire deal will have been consummated.”

  Looking from face to face, Legira knew that he had triumphed. One by one he studied his companions,

  and saw agreement on every countenance.

  Then, at the end of his inspection, he once more encountered the hawk-faced man, who was sitting with

  folded arms. Legira and this individual locked in a silent stare.

  “Unless there are further questions”—Hendrix was speaking to his companions—“we can now give

  Legira our decision—”

  Legira scarcely heard the words. He was watching his adversary, knowing that here was one, at least,

  who by a single question could ruin his plans. The consul's assurance began to fade as he saw the lips of

  that impenetrable face move.

  “I have a question.”

  The voice was cold. Although the words were spoken to the entire group, Legira knew that they were

  meant for him, alone.

  “A question,” announced Hendrix, rapping the table. “A question from Lamont Cranston.”

  LAMONT CRANSTON!

  The name was known to Alvarez Legira, although he had never met the man before. He knew that

  Cranston was a man of great wealth, one who had taken considerable interest in foreign affairs. He had

  heard Cranston described as a cosmopolitan, whose home was everywhere.

  Instinctively, Legira knew that success was no longer in his own hands. It depended entirely upon what

  Lamont Cranston might have to say.

  Legira's hopes seemed to fade. He dreaded the question that was to come. It could shatter his plans in

  one moment. He tried to affect an air of indifference as he waited.

  “My question is this.” Cranston spoke in slow, emphatic monotone, staring directly at Legira. “Will you

  give us your absolute word, Mr. Legira, that this entire sum will be utilized for the express purposes

  which you have stipulated?”

  “Positively,” answered Legira.

  “To the government of Colombia,” continued Cranston, “to the government of Venezuela; and to the

  treasury of the new Republic of Santander?”

  “For those purposes, and none other,” affirmed Legira.

  Lamont Cranston's eyes were gleaming as they pierced the gaze of Alvarez Legira. The consul waited,

  his spirit sagging, for he felt that another query was about to come. Then, Lamont Cranston did the

  unexpected. He turned away and faced John Hendrix.

  “I approve the plan,” he said. “I have no further questions.”

  Legira gasped in amazement. In one brief second he had been raised from what seemed tragic failure to

  sure success for his plans. Lamont Cranston, on the verge of ruining his hopes, had suddenly become his

  stanch supporter!

  Before the surprised consul could recover, John Hendrix had rapped the table and called for a vote.

  Legira heard the chorus:

  “Aye!”

  There was not a dissenting voice. Legira found himself shaking hands with John Hendrix and accepting

  the congratulations of others. He affixed his signature to a signed document. The last detail had been

  arranged.

  Ten million dollars!

  Alvarez Legira had fought for that stake, and he had won. He gradually regained his composure. He

  looked about for Lamont Cranston, the man who had furnished the dramatic climax to these negotiations.

  But he saw no sign of the calm-faced millionaire.

  The other men were leaving. Soon, Alvarez Legira was alone with John Hendrix. They talked for a few

  minutes. Hendrix would have the money within forty-eight hours. Legira could call and make

  arrangements for its shipment to Santander.

  “Jermyn!”

  When Hendrix gave his summons, the melancholy secretary appeared from the other room. He was the

  only one who remained beside the two negotiators. Jermyn was a man who had the confidence of

  Hendrix. He had been appointed usher at this secret meeting.

  “Mr. Legira is leaving, Jermyn,” said Hendrix. “You may show him through the other room.”

  Legira shook hands with Hendrix. He took his hat and cane, and left the suite. In the corridor, alone, he

  glanced in both directions; then headed for the stairs that led to the roof garden. Upward he strode until

  he reached the top of the final flight.

  THERE, Legira peered cautiously from the head of the stairs. With quick, deft movement, he stepped

  into the lobby. Standing by the wall, he lowered his head, but looked shrewdly about him while he

  inserted a cigarette in his holder.

  Legira saw no one watching him. He lighted his cigarette, strode toward the elevator, and joined a group

  of people who were leaving the roof.

  As he entered the car, Legira's back was directly toward the stairs that he had left. A sudden sensation

  gripped him—the feeling that now some one was watching him. He turned; but too late. The door of the

  car had closed.

  Only a split s
econd prevented Alvarez Legira from seeing what he had suspected. Two eyes were

  burning from the darkness of the stairway - eyes that Legira would have recognized. They were the same

  eyes that had viewed him so closely during the conference—the eyes of Lamont Cranston.

  Now, those eyes had disappeared. No sign of a man was visible. Down through the semidarkness of the

  stairway, only a swishing sound betokened the descent of a living being. The stairway ended in a side

  passage on the ground floor, a spot which at this hour was deserted.

  There, a tall figure came into view—a strange, silent figure that was seen by no one. A tall man, clad in

  black, his cloak dropping from his shoulders, his features hidden by the brim of a slouch hat, stood

  motionless. Had Alvarez Legira been there to see that phantom shape, with the eyes that gleamed from

  beneath the hat brim, he would have been astounded.

  For this mysterious man possessed the eyes of Lamont Cranston, yet he was a totally different individual.

  In all New York, there was only one who appeared in this strange, fantastic guise. That one was The

  Shadow—man of the night, whose very name brought terror to the hearts of evildoers.

  A soft laugh came from the hidden lips. The black cloak swished and revealed a flash of its crimson

  lining. Then the man of mystery was gone. Moving swiftly through the door at the end of the passage, he

  had vanished into the night.

  Where crime and danger threatened, there did The Shadow appear. Tonight, he had been present to

  learn the plans of Alvarez Legira. Evil work was afoot, and The Shadow was prepared to thwart it.

  Why had Lamont Cranston questioned Alvarez Legira? Why had he ceased his questioning at the very

  moment when the consul had expected him to resume his quiz? What was the mystery behind the strange

  negotiations which Legira had managed to conclude?

  The only answer to these problems was a low, uncanny laugh that echoed along the outside wall of the

  Hotel Corona. Some one, invisible in the darkness, had uttered that weird laugh, and the eerie mirth bore

  unfathomable foreboding.

  It was the laugh of The Shadow. He had observed the secretive actions of Alvarez Legira. Ten million

  dollars were at stake. Others had been lulled into believing that the money was safe. They did not suspect

  that a mighty plot was on foot to rob them of immense wealth.

  That fact was one which Alvarez Legira had shrewdly avoided mentioning. He believed that his suave

  speech had produced full confidence, and that none who had heard him to-night could possibly suspect

  his plans.

  In that, Legira had been mistaken.

  The Shadow had been at that secret meeting!

  The Shadow knew!

  CHAPTER III. WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT

  AS Alvarez Legira stepped from his taxicab in front of a brownstone building on a side street north of

  Eighty-first, the light of a near-by street lamp plainly revealed the figure of the tall consul as he paid the

  driver. That light also showed the front of the building, which seemed a focal point in the middle of a

  sullen, dark-windowed row.

  The house was distinguished from the neighboring buildings by a bronze plate located beside the door.

  The plaque bore the coat of arms of the new Republic of Santander. This marked it as the consular

  residence.

  The cab pulled away, leaving Legira alone on the curb. With his blase indifference, the consul mounted

  the steps and rang the doorbell. There was a pulling of bolts; the door opened cautiously, and Legira

  entered. The street remained deserted, with the illumination still glaring on the front of that one

  conspicuous house.

  All was dark across the street. The buildings there were old and unoccupied. Silence remained after

  Legira's departure. Yet that darkness opposite the consul's residence bespoke the presence of living

  beings. A passer might have imagined vague whisperings coming from the gloom of a little alleyway.

  Footsteps sounded lightly. A man strolled along the street opposite Legira's. He paused to light a

  cigarette. The glare of the match showed a keen, firm face. The man tossed the match in the gutter. His

  glance, following the bit of blazing wood, swung toward Legira's house. He resumed his way toward the

  next corner.

  By the time he was out of earshot, whispers were at work. Two men were talking, both unseen and

  unheard by the stranger who had passed.

  “That's him,” came a low voice. “Martin Powell. Told you he'd be along as soon as Legira got in the

  house.”

  “What of it?” was the reply. “He's no better than a flatfoot. Might as well carry a police whistle to let us

  know he's coming.”

  “He's pretty smart, Pete.”

  “Don't worry about him, Silk. Just keep out of sight. He's watching Legira —that's all.”

  “But listen, Pete,” said the first speaker, “he's liable to come back. If you're dropping in on Legira, he'll

  see you.”

  “What if he does?” questioned Pete. “He won't know who I am. You've got to lay low, of course. He

  might recognize you as Silk Dowdy. You're playing under cover. But nobody in New York knows me.”

  “I get you, Pete. Better wait, though. Let him go by again. It would be bad to slide across the street from

  here.”

  “Say, Silk, you've got a lot to learn, in spite of your rep. I've visited Legira before. You wait here. I'm

  going to cut back down the alley. When I show up at Legira's, I'll come in a cab.”

  The whispering ended. A few minutes after silence had resumed its sway, footsteps again clicked on the

  sidewalk, and the muffled form of Martin Powell passed by the entrance to the alley.

  THE darkened windows of the house across the street reflected the light of the street lamp. There were

  no signs of activity.

  Neither the patrolling man nor the watcher in the gloom of the alley could tell what was going on in that

  house. To all appearances, the occupants might have retired. But such was not the case.

  In an upstairs room at the side of the house, Alvarez Legira was seated at a table, upon which rested a

  single lamp. The shade was drawn nearly to the sill. Only a slight space revealed the presence of a closed

  shutter outside the single window.

  Seated opposite the consul was a short, slender man whose sallow complexion and dark, flashing eyes

  betokened a Spanish ancestry. At the doorway stood a tall, silent fellow, whose swarthy cheeks and

  forehead were rough and pock-marked.

  They formed a strange group, these three. Legira, suave and polished, was obviously the leader. The

  slender man appeared crafty and dangerous. The big man, despite his servile attitude, was formidable

  and villainous.

  “Go, Francisco,” ordered Legira.

  The big man turned without a reply and stalked from the room. His heavy tread sounded on the stairway.

  “All right, Lopez,” said Legira.

  “Ah, senor,” began the slender man. “Buena—”

  “Speak in English,” commanded Legira quietly. “You need the practice. Forget the Spanish for a while.

  Remember, as my secretary, the better your English, the more useful you will be.”

  “Accept my pardon, sir,” replied Lopez, with a humble bow. “I have forgot as you have told me. I shall

  try to speak in English—all the time, you know.”

  Legira smiled wanly at his secretary's odd pronunciation. Lopez was speaking with apparent effort. He
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  seemed to gain encouragement from Legira's smile, and his teeth shone as he grinned broadly.

  “What happened to-night?” questioned Legira.

  “That man was on watch,” declared Lopez. “He kept on the look when you were gone out.”

  “You mean Martin Powell?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all right,” announced Legira. “We know all about him, Lopez. What of the others?”

  “I am not sure, senor. I have think I have seen—looking from the front of this house. They have watched,

  too. That is what I think.”

  Legira arose from his chair. He shoved a cigarette into his long holder and struck a match with vicious

  action.

  “Trouble!” he growled. “That's why they're here. Trouble! They think they are fooling me, Lopez. I shall

  fool them!”

  The secretary nodded.

  “Remember in Maracaibo?” questioned Legira. “I looked for trouble then. They tried to kill me there, eh,

  Lopez? You remember?”

  Lopez grinned and laughed with a menacing chuckle. The wickedness of his tone seemed to please

  Legira.

  “Francisco was there, then,” smiled Legira reminiscently.

  “Francisco is here,” responded Lopez.

  “Yes. Francisco is here.” Legira paused to puff thoughtfully at his cigarette. “Francisco is here, but this is

  not Maracaibo.”

  THE statement brought a solemn expression to the secretary's face. Legira was silent for a minute or

  more; then he looked squarely at Lopez, and spoke in a low voice.

  “The deal went through to-night,” he said. “Everything is the way I wanted it. Ten million dollars, Lopez!”

  “Twenty million pesos!”

  “It means more than that, Lopez. Dollars are safer than pesos. Yes, I can obtain the ten million dollars

  any time I want them. But after that—”

  “You think they will know?”

  “Not yet. Not for a while. But I am worried, Lopez. If I proceed quickly, all may be well. On the

  contrary, that might be a grave mistake. It is best to wait.”

  “But not to wait long, senor.”

  “No—not too long. Wait, to see if they know. If they do not know, we can act quickly and surely.”

  “What of this man named Powell?”

  “I can avoid trouble with him, Lopez. That is part of my plan. I have arranged negotiations so that I deal