The other car swung from the road. Its driver had spotted the entrance to the driveway of the old house.
Careening, the coming automobile rose on two wheels, then swerved parallel to the road and dropped
back on all fours.
Harry kept straight on. His wild eyes saw the outline of a trim coupe as he passed the car whose driver
had used such able judgment. Harry's ears heard an outburst of shots from behind.
An exclamation of amazement came from Cliff Marsland. The man in the back seat shouted in mad
exultation.
“He's got them!”
“Who?” demanded Harry.
A resounding crash came to Harry's ears. Cliff's explanation followed as they sped along the straightening
road.
“The man in the coupe!” shouted Cliff. “Shot the tires as they came by. I saw the flash of his gun. Clear
off the road—smashing into the trees—that's where they are now!”
CLIFF'S words were true. Back at the driveway, the man in the coupe had polished off the first of the
pursuing cars. With sure, quick aim, directly in the path of the approaching automobile, he had shot the
front tires.
Only one man could have performed that deed with such precision. It was The Shadow who had arrived
to save the lives of his men—both by quick work at the wheel and by ready action with the automatic.
But Cliff had not seen all. The escaping sedan was out of sight when the second car swung up and began
a terrific pursuit.
The men in it had witnessed the catastrophe. They were bearing down upon the stopped coupe. From
the sides of a rakish touring car, gun hands opened fire. The driver, confident in the ability of his
forewarned men, did not slacken speed as he hurtled onward. That was his great mistake. Before the
shots of the gangsters could take effect, The Shadow had fired. This time he did not aim at the tires. He
knew that the man at the wheel might be quick enough with the brake to avoid a smash-up. Instead, The
Shadow, with unerring aim, placed a bullet past the edge of the windshield. The Shadow's target was the
driver. The Shadow's aim was true.
The man at the wheel collapsed. The car, uncontrolled, kept straight ahead instead of taking the last
portion of the curve. It sideswiped an old gate in front of the driveway, tilted to one side and turned
turtle.
Swinging his coupe, The Shadow calmly drove from the drive and turned toward Manhattan. Men were
crawling from the wrecked cars—men who seemed dazed and bewildered. Others lay unmoving. Not a
shot was fired by the defeated gangsters as The Shadow's car rolled along the road.
The coupe headed westward. Its speed increased. It left the scene of havoc far behind. Single-handed,
The Shadow had outwitted and defeated the mobsters who had ambushed and pursued his men. Those
evildoers had paid the penalty for their cowardly attack.
The coupe swept on to Manhattan. It crossed a big suspension bridge and threaded its way rapidly
through the streets. It stopped before a large apartment house. From the car stepped The Shadow,
garbed in black. He melted into the darkness of the side street, a part of the night itself.
When next the sinister form appeared, it was standing before the door of an apartment. A key worked
noiselessly in the lock. The door opened. The sound of a low-pitched voice reached the hall.
Frank Desmond was talking over the telephone. His words were uttered in a tone of enthusiasm.
“Great... I understand... You will be here for me... I have my luggage... Not more than fifty pounds...”
The Shadow was edging into the room. He stood in plain view, now, but Desmond did not see him. The
man's back was toward the door.
Desmond hung up the receiver. He turned toward the end of the room. He viewed his face in a mirror.
His lips wore a smile. Desmond laughed. He was experiencing an elation which he liked. He was
enjoying a traitor's triumph.
Legira had been thwarted. Zelva had borne out his promise. Plans were prepared for Desmond—plans
which could not fail.
A traitor's triumph!
Desmond's laugh was raucous. The sight of his own leering face pleased him. His mouth was opened
wide in a victorious grin.
Then came a sudden change. The man's smile froze. His pudgy face turned white. He stood whimpering
at what he saw in the mirror. There, reflected weirdly, was a form towering above his shoulder.
Desmond gasped as he saw the black-cloaked shoulders, the brim of the slouch hat, the glittering eyes
that marked The Shadow. Beneath the brim of the hat were features that Desmond could not distinguish.
Upon them rested a greenish glow, which formed a ghostly sight.
Desmond trembled as he heard the tones of a sinister, taunting laugh. It came from unseen lips and its
echoes cast a weird, uncanny spell that filled the room.
To Desmond, that laugh brought terror. It was the laugh of The Shadow. To-night, it marked the end of a
traitor's triumph.
CHAPTER XXV. THE DOUBLE CROSS
Two ships floated serenely on a placid sea. One was the yacht Cordova; the other was a rakish,
low-lying rumrunner. In the fading light of early evening, they seemed like painted ships.
A plane came purring from the distance. As it neared the ships, it circled, headed toward the Cordova
and zoomed downward. It came to rest upon the surface of the ocean.
A little boat put out from the yacht. It picked up two men who alighted from the seaplane. The motor
roared and the amphibian took off, heading back to land.
The arrivals were brought to the Cordova. They came up the ladder and the men who manned the boat
passed two bulky bags after them. Standing on the deck, the arrivals faced Rodriguez Zelva. The chunky
South American smiled as he recognized the faces of his man Pesano and Frank Desmond, the traitor.
The bags belonged to Desmond. Zelva motioned to a member of the crew. The man took the bags
below. Desmond, wearied in appearance, followed. Zelva gripped Pesano's arm and took his man to a
lower cabin.
There they found two others. One was Ellsdorff, the German agent in Zelva's employ. The other was
Alvarez Legira, stretched in a chair with his wrists handcuffed behind him. Pesano grinned at the plight of
the consul from Santander.
“All worked good?” questioned Pesano.
“Very fine,” said Zelva. “I have the box here on the boat, in a very nice strong room which our friend
Legira provided. Here is the key”—he dangled it from his hand—“and I shall keep it.”
“What about the crew?”
“Of this ship?” Zelva laughed and looked at Ellsdorff, who grinned in response. “They are on the other
boat. They will not be there long.”
He made a gesture indicating a man being thrown overboard. Pesano smiled.
“It was very easy,” declared Zelva. “We captured this boat with no trouble. This man”—he pointed to
Legira—“walked into the trap. I think we shall keep him—for a while. We will bring over more men to
make a crew, when we are ready to leave. But first, we have business with another—”
He made a pointing gesture toward the door. Pesano nodded in understanding.
“You must listen to this, Legira,” said Zelva, in a pleased tone. “It will be one thing you will like very
much. You were tricked by a man named Desmond. Very good. Very good—for us—but not for him.
He is here now.”
Legi
ra's eyes flamed with hatred.
“This man Desmond,” continued Zelva, “is of no use now. So we shall finish him. You like that, eh?”
An expression of satisfaction flickered on Legira's face. This, at least, would be one bit of justice.
Desmond, the double-crosser, was to be double-crossed.
“Which of you two?” asked Zelva, politely, turning first to Pesano and then to Ellsdorff.
Pesano drew a sharp-bladed knife from beneath his coat. Ellsdorff produced an automatic.
“Which is best?” Zelva questioned Legira.
“The knife,” said the consul, his eyes gleaming with revenge.
Pesano looked at Zelva and pointed eagerly to the door. Zelva nodded.
“Give me some time,” said Pesano. “I have talked to him in New York. I shall be friendly. Let me do it
as I wish. Where is his room?”
Zelva pointed.
“Up near the strong-room,” he explained. “It has the letter A on the door.”
Pesano nodded.
WHEN he had gone, Zelva leaned back in his chair and spoke thoughtfully.
“So you had a fine way, Legira,” he said. “A fine way to take that money. You were clever, but it has
done you no good. It was very good for you to have this fine yacht. Where, may I ask, were you going?”
“To Santander,” declared Legira.
Zelva laughed. Crook that he was, he could not understand any one whose mind worked differently. He
did not believe Legira's statement. The consul became sullen and morose.
Zelva opened a small closet and discovered a bottle of liquor. He extended it to Ellsdorff, who filled two
glasses that lay on the table.
“Thanks to you, my friend,” said Zelva to Legira. “It is too bad that you cannot have so good a drink
with us. It would be too difficult for you to hold the glass.”
Minutes went by. The idle boat barely moved with the motion of the swell. Zelva began to look
perplexed. He wondered why Pesano had delayed. He was about to rise, when Pesano came in the
door.
“It could not be,” he said. “He was wide awake. It was too difficult, in that stateroom. He is coming here,
soon. I told him you wished to see him.”
Ellsdorff uttered a grunt of contempt. He drew his automatic.
“It iss my turn,” he said in a guttural voice. “My turn, yah?”
Zelva nodded with the solemnity of a judge. Pesano shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to a drink.
He stood close beside Ellsdorff.
“This will be good to watch,” declared Zelva to Legira. “You shall see this man die. Will that not be good
to watch?”
Legira did not reply. He was staring grimly at the door. Ellsdorff was holding the automatic, calmly in
readiness.
There was a knock at the door. Rodriguez Zelva smiled as he looked at Ellsdorff. The German raised the
gun. He was covering the door, his gun hand half hidden by the form of Pesano.
“Come in,” called Zelva, pleasantly.
The door began to open inward. Ellsdorff's finger rested on the trigger of the automatic. Pesano, standing
beside Ellsdorff, was gripping the knife which he had not used. His eyes were staring toward the German,
as though in envy of the part Ellsdorff was to play.
The double cross was ready for its climax!
Death awaited the man who was to enter!
CHAPTER XXVI. THE COMPROMISE
THE door of the cabin swung suddenly wide. Rodriguez Zelva stared in amazement. It was not Frank
Desmond who stood there; it was a man garbed in black, his shoulders covered by a flowing cloak, his
head hidden beneath a broad-brimmed hat.
“Shoot!”
Zelva blurted the command to Ellsdorff. The German, momentarily surprised, was about to obey. But
Pesano was quicker. With a wild, sudden swing, the swarthy man hurled himself upon Ellsdorff and
buried his knife to the hilt in the German's body.
A guttural cry came from Ellsdorff's lips. With wide mouth and staring eyes he turned his automatic
toward his attacker and pressed the trigger three times. Then he rolled to the floor and Pesano crumpled
forward upon him.
Rodriguez Zelva made a quick leap for the automatic. A voice from the door stopped him. Zelva looked
at the man in black. He saw the burning eyes of The Shadow. He also saw the muzzle of an automatic
that extended from a black-gloved hand.
Zelva moved back to his chair and sat down calmly. In this moment of unexpected adversity, he was, as
ever, a schemer.
“Who are you?” demanded Zelva.
“One who came here as Frank Desmond,” returned The Shadow, in a whispered voice. “I learned his
plans from his own lips. He was in my power. I took his place.”
“Pesano—”
Zelva was staring at the dead man on the floor.
“Pesano was to meet Desmond,” said The Shadow, quietly. “He met me. We talked. He decided that
he, too, could play the double cross, after he heard my promises.”
Zelva understood. This amazing man had weaned away Pesano, so that he would have help when he
reached the yacht. Doubtless it had been an offer of money, should they succeed in turning the tables.
“Your schemes are ended, Zelva,” said The Shadow, in his low tone. “You captured this yacht with your
rumrunning ship. You came to it and committed piracy. Now you shall lose your ill-gotten gains.”
Zelva felt uneasy as he listened. Nevertheless, he was artful despite the changed situation. He had cards
to play and he smiled as he delivered them.
“You think that you have captured me?” Zelva's voice was sneering. “You are in a trap, that is all. Kill
me. Then try to leave. My crew commands this ship. My other boat is here. You are helpless.”
“That will not avail you when you are dead.”
The calm monotone of The Shadow's voice made Zelva shudder. Legira's face lighted in elation.
“I have but to call”—Zelva's tone was defiant—“and you are lost -”
“Try to call.”
The Shadow's voice quelled the man. He realized that pistol shots would summon no one on this ship.
Those had been expected by the crew.
ZELVA realized that his cause was fading. He knew that The Shadow, through his indomitable skill, held
the upper hand. Yet he sensed a chance for terms.
“What do you wish?” he asked.
“Leave this ship,” ordered The Shadow. “Send back its rightful crew. Go your way—and see to it that
you never cross my path.”
“The money?”
“It belongs to Legira.”
Zelva smiled cunningly.
“I do not take your terms,” he said. “Do what you wish. But remember”—he turned to
Legira—“remember that if I die—even if you escape—those men of yours on the other ship—”
The inference was plain. The crew of the yacht Santander were prisoners. They would surely die; for The
Shadow and Legira could hope for nothing more than escape by the small boat.
Legira's eyes blinked. He was matching wealth with lives. Schemer though he was, Legira was honest to
those who served him.
“You shall have part of the money,” he said, “if you will release the crew.”
“How much?”
“That we shall decide.”
The men had reached an impasse. They stared at each other in disaccord. The Shadow watched. He
knew that time was waning. Dangers here increased as time went on.
“Here are the terms, Zelva,” he declared. “Leave thi
s ship. Release the crew. The Cordova will sail to
Santander. You will come there also, to receive the share that Legira offers you.”
“One half,” said Legira.
“The money goes to Santander?” questioned Zelva, shrewdly.
“Yes,” replied The Shadow.
“How?” questioned Zelva.
“In the custody of its rightful owner,” announced The Shadow. “Legira will take it on this ship.”
“You think I am a fool?” sneered Zelva. “I should never see one cent of that money. Listen to this
plan”—his voice was sarcastic— “I take the money on my ship, in return for the crew. I shall bring the
money to Legira—to divide with him—”
“No!” interposed Legira. “That would be—”
The Shadow interrupted, with a sweep of one hand. Legira became silent.
“Your terms are accepted, Zelva,” declared The Shadow. “We rely upon you to abide by your promise.
Where is the ten million dollars?”
“In the strong room,” declared Zelva. “There, in a locked box. I have the only key.”
“Order the crew of the Cordova to be placed in small boats,” said The Shadow. “When that is done, you
may take the box from the strong room. You must bring it to Santander—unopened—there to deliver it
to Legira. The division may then be made. Do you agree?”
Legira was about to protest; but stopped as he saw The Shadow's eyes. Zelva, with a smile, bowed in
acceptance of the terms.
“I agree,” he said. “I shall bring the box to Santander; there, we shall divide the money. I shall not open
the box until I meet with Legira.”
“Come to the door.”
THE SHADOW motioned Zelva to the entrance. With his automatic between the man's shoulders, The
Shadow stood behind him. Prompted by The Shadow, Zelva called. A man appeared in the corridor.
“Tell them on the other ship,” said Zelva, “tell them to put the prisoners in little boats. Immediately, you
understand?”
The man went on his errand. Slow minutes passed. The Shadow motioned Zelva through the corridor
and up a flight of steps. They stood in the darkness of the deck. The moonlight showed small boats
beside the rumrunner, awaiting further orders.
“Call two men,” said The Shadow, in a whisper. “Take them to the strong room.”
Zelva obeyed. He did not see The Shadow as he descended the steps, but he knew well that the
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