Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 120 - Quetzal

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QUETZAL
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in
The Shadow Magazine
February 15, 1937
CHAPTER I
FORCED LANDING
THERE were five passengers aboard the silver-hued plane that was droning
westward across the California desert. All were persons who had boarded the
ship at Phoenix, Arizona, for direct flight to San Diego.
More than an hour out of Phoenix, the sky liner had passed over Yuma,
where a muddy ribbon represented the lower stretch of the Colorado River.
Twenty-odd minutes had passed since Yuma. At its present clip the plane should
be close to El Centro, north of the Mexican border.
From dead ahead, the glow of the setting sun glistened upon a huge sheet
of water, that looked like a gigantic oasis situated amid barren desert soil.
One passenger gazed downward through the window at his elbow. His eyes keened
suddenly, as he observed the broad lake below.
To many who had flown across the south of California, sight of that
lake, miles in width, would have signified that the plane had swung to a more
northern route. In size, in location, the lake resembled the famous Salton
Sea, that stretches through California's Imperial Valley. Sight of it would
have brought confidence that the trip was going well.
The present observer gained a different thought. Though no change showed
upon the masklike features of his hawkish face, his eyes told, by their glint,
that he had made a discovery. That sheet of water was not the Salton Sea, well
north of the Border. It was Lake Maquita, an inland sea in Lower California,
miles below the United States-Mexico border line.
Veering slightly from its course, the plane had swung south instead of
north.The hawk-faced passenger proved this to his satisfaction, when he drew a
watch from his pocket. Clicking open the back of the watch case, he displayed
a compass. The needle showed the plane's direction as southwest by west.
Long fingers closed the watch case; the timepiece went back into a vest
pocket. His gaze still toward the window, the passenger reached beside him and
opened a flat, flexible briefcase. From folds of black cloth, he drew a
massive automatic.
The plane had passed Lake Maquita. His view of that water had told this
passenger that an emergency might be at hand. The plane's course was cutting
deeper below the Border, farther from the normal air route toward San Diego.
Its entry into uncharted Mexican territory could signify that the hawk-faced
passenger's identity was known.
That might mean trouble. The hawk-faced passenger, alone near the rear
of the cabin, was The Shadow. Master fighter who hunted crime single-handed,
The Shadow had long since learned that when the unusual occurred, it could
mean that his own life would be concerned.
WHEN he reached for his gun, The Shadow did not glance toward the other
passengers. Instead, he kept up a pose of absent gazing from the window.
Hence, he was unable to see the action of a man who was seated across the
aisle and farther front.
The other passenger was a long-faced, dreary-looking individual, who had
been idly sketching on a piece of paper ever since the plane had passed Yuma.
The man's penciled drawing had come to a completion. He raised the paper
slightly, tilted it forward and toward the aisle.
The paper bore a strange, outlandish symbol: the well-drawn figure of a
feathered serpent. The lifted head of the reptile bore a plume. Hideous in
every detail, the drawn sketch represented a mythical token of the past. It
stood for Quetzal-grotesque reptilian god of the ancient Aztecs.
A peering eye saw that monstrous figure sketched upon the artist's pad.
The co-pilot of the plane was looking through from the front compartment. He
had opened the connecting door a mere inch, to watch for the signal from the
long-faced man. Sight of the completed Quetzal was all that the watcher
needed. He closed the door; turned toward the pilot who was seated at the
controls.
The pilot of that plane was Jerry Loyden, who knew every mile of desert
and mountain that lay between Phoenix and San Diego. Frequently, Jerry flew a
different route for test purposes; but he had been puzzled by the orders that
the co-pilot had brought to him at Phoenix, today.
Instructions were to veer southwest at Yuma; to keep that direction past
Lake Maquita. Then straight west to the coastal range of mountains, and
northward up to San Diego. Jerry's only guess regarding this odd route was
that the line intended to make future stops at Tia Juana, for benefit of
passengers who wanted to visit the resort at Agua Caliente. Even at that, the
route went too far southward.
Something else had puzzled Jerry. The co-pilot was a stranger;
apparently a substitute who had been chosen just before flight. Jerry had not
even learned the fellow's name. There were lots of odd angles, working for
this lesser air line; but shoving aboard an unknown co-pilot at the last
minute was something that Jerry could not understand.
Jerry Loyden was due to have two questions answered simultaneously. The
co-pilot had shifted close. From his hip pocket, he drew a gun. His face was
ugly as he pressed the muzzle against Jerry's neck. The pilot gave a startled,
upward glance. The thuggish co-pilot gestured for him to land the ship.
Grimly, Jerry understood. Faked orders, brought by a crook who had
passed himself as a co-pilot. The fellow wanted a landing on Mexican soil, so
he could stage an air holdup. That, at least, was Jerry's conjecture.
For a moment, Jerry showed reluctance; then began to handle the
controls, to start the ship downward. In those brief seconds, he gained
determination.
The plane's dip fooled the crook who had the pilot covered. The pressure
of the gun muzzle eased. With a quick twist, Jerry sprang from the controls,
made a grab for the crook's revolver. An instant later, the pair locked in a
desperate struggle.
ODDS were even in the pilot room; but the scene was different in the
cabin. There, the man with the longish face had been waiting for the first
motion that would indicate a landing. As the plane began its downward nose,
the long-faced man shifted toward the aisle. He thrust the sketch of Quetzal
outward, so that the three passengers near him could see it.
Instantly, four persons became a murderous band. A big-jowled man came
to life from a faked doze, to whip out a .38 revolver. A darkish fellow who
looked like a Mexican flashed a knife from his belt with one swift gesture. A
dark-clad, middle-aged woman pulled a .32 from a hand bag; her face was
tigerish as she swung about.
All turned toward the rear of the cabin; and with them, came the
long-faced man who had drawn the figure of Quetzal. He flung the sketch pad
aside as he yanked a revolver; his countenance was as vicious as that of the
imaginary snake-god. The order that he mouthed was like a reptile's hiss:
"The Shadow! Finish him!"
On their feet, the four were shoving toward the lone passenger at the
back of the cabin. They thought they had trapped their victim unawares. They
were wrong. In answer to the murderer's order came a challenge that sounded
above the drone of motors. It was a sinister, mocking laugh from lips that
scarcely moved.
The laugh of The Shadow! With it, the lone fighter shifted from his
seat. His move was a sidewise fade; as he made it, his hand came into view. As
revolvers barked, an automatic tongued its response. The Shadow's shots were
thrusts of doom.
The big-jowled man sprawled first, in the middle of the aisle. A quick
shot from The Shadow clipped the forearm of the tigerish woman, as she aimed
with her .32; with a sharp cry, she slumped back into her seat. The way was
clear between The Shadow and the long-faced leader who had depicted the token
of Quetzal.
The leader jabbed a hurried, badly aimed shot that bashed the steel exit
door beside The Shadow's shoulder. That attempt was his last opportunity. The
Shadow's big gun answered. The attack leader sagged.
One enemy remained in combat; he was the darkish fighter with the knife.
The Shadow had ignored him to deal with the others. The blade-wielder was
leaping along the aisle, hoping to gain a thrust from an angle, before The
Shadow could turn. The Shadow's free hand clamped upward, caught the crook's
forearm as the thrust came. To counter, the dark-faced man grabbed for The
Shadow's gun.
Both weapons temporarily useless, the two fighters grappled. They swayed
across the aisle; then took a jolt when the plane suddenly shivered as though
it had struck a mammoth air-pocket. The direction of the stagger was
forward-past the slumped woman, across the two sprawled bodies. The Shadow and
his adversary crashed against the door that led to the pilot room.
The plane was out of control. It was going into a nose dive. Matters had
gone amiss in the pilot room. Death faced The Shadow, even if he proved victor
in his present grapple. Speed, perhaps, might save him.
TWISTING, The Shadow slugged his gun on the skull of the darkish man.
The crook subsided, his knife clattering beside him. Yanking open the door in
front of him, The Shadow sprawled into the pilot room.
Conditions had reversed there. Jerry Loyden lay helpless in a corner,
stunned by a blow from the fake co-pilot's gun. In eliminating Jerry, the
crook had made trouble for himself. Seizing the controls, he was unable to
right the ship from its dive.
Even The Shadow's own experience with planes could not help. The ship
was sure to crash; the best course was to let the crook continue his frantic
efforts to prevent the smash.
Grabbing the unconscious form of Jerry Loyden, The Shadow tried to
clamber back through the cabin, toward the rear door. The plane was hurtling
groundward; spinning, its fall partly aided The Shadow. He made progress
through the cabin, dragging the senseless pilot across the sprawled bodies
that were wedged between the seats on the sides of the aisle.
The crash arrived just as The Shadow reached the last seat. The plane
hit the ground at a slant; a big wing crumpled; the nose bashed the earth and
flattened. The whole frame of the ship twisted and crackled. The Shadow
lurched sidewise, half trapped between two broken seats.
He felt the side of the plane heave, start downward, then pause. A huge
roar filled his ears. Dazed, The Shadow could feel his briefcase beneath him;
he sensed the weight of Loyden's body above him. Dimly, he realized that the
cabin had tilted backward, tail down. His brain drummed upon one thought: the
rear door of the cabin.
Gripping his briefcase, shouldering Loyden's inert form, The Shadow
wedged free of the trapping seats. The roar had become a crackle. Heat seemed
to sweep the demolished cabin. The wrecked plane was afire. The door, alone,
could bring safety.
The tilt of the cabin floor fairly slid The Shadow toward it. He found
the door jammed when he reached it. With a hard shoulder heave, The Shadow
drove the barrier outward.
A sudden sweep of flame seared the cabin. Like the blast from an
inferno, it whipped upward from the ruined front of the plane. Gripping
Loyden, with the briefcase clamped between, The Shadow lunged outward. He and
the stunned pilot took a five-foot pitch to the softish ground, while the
rising flames howled above them.
With renewed effort, The Shadow hauled Loyden away from the fire's
range. He left the pilot forty feet from the plane, with the briefcase lying
beside him; then turned back toward the wreckage. One glance told The Shadow
that it would be impossible to rescue any crooks who might still be alive.
The plane had become a pyre, its flame more brilliant than the setting
sun. Crashing, it had mowed down clusters of giant cactuses. All about, stood
other specimens of that spiny tree, like vengeful sentinels viewing the
plane's fate. Within a short while, the wrecked ship would be no more than a
steel skeleton.
ABOVE the roar of the flames, The Shadow heard a vibrant hum. He looked
upward, to see a plane zooming low over the crest of a distant foothill that
marked the desert's edge. Something in that prompt arrival betokened further
menace, The Shadow stepped back to where Loyden lay.
The pilot was near a clump of sagebrush, beside the base of a giant
cactus. From the briefcase, The Shadow drew a cloak of black; he stretched it
across Loyden's body. Crouching partly beneath the brushy shelter, The Shadow
drew both the pilot and the covering cloak closer to him.
Remaining motionless, The Shadow trusted to this hasty camouflage. He
knew that observers from the approaching plane would look for motion on the
ground, or for conspicuous objects. If they saw neither, they would not
suspect that a patch of blackness, stilled by a fringe of sagebrush,
represented human life.
The plane neared the wreckage. Hundreds of feet above, it circled the
flaming spot; then rose higher, circling as it gained altitude. Like a
vulture, the mysterious plane performed another long circuit against the sky;
then straightened course and departed westward, beyond the hills.
The sun had set. The flames from the wrecked air liner were dying. For
short minutes, the fire seemed to fight the brief twilight; then the last
flames subsided. Thick darkness settled on the desert. It blanketed The Shadow
and the rescued man who lay beside him.
From The Shadow's lips came a strange, mirthless laugh, that sounded
like a ghostly tone amid that desolation. The Shadow had triumphed over
enemies who sought his life. He had deceived spying eyes that had peered from
the vulturous plane above.
The Shadow had expected danger upon his present mission. He had outlived
the first thrust made against him. Though stranded upon the desert, miles
below the Border, The Shadow was ready to resume his campaign against new
enemies who dwelt on Mexican soil.
CHAPTER II
BELOW THE BORDER
THE SHADOW welcomed the arrival of night. It meant that he could leave
the spot where the crashed sky liner had carried five attackers to their doom.
The hazard of the desert was small compared with the danger that might come,
should other crooks learn that The Shadow still lived.
The Shadow's chief problem was Jerry Loyden. His first task was to
revive the pilot; to bring him to a state where he could join The Shadow in
the long trek that would lead back to civilization.
A flashlight glimmered beside the sagebrush. It showed the pilot's face,
pitifully drawn; nevertheless, The Shadow noted that Loyden was due to revive
from his unconscious state. To speed that result, The Shadow reached into a
pocket in the black cloak. He brought out a small phial that contained a
purplish liquid.
Waiting until Loyden's eyelids flickered, The Shadow pressed the phial
to the pilot's lips. Drops of the elixir trickled down his throat. The effect
was immediate. The pilot opened his eyes, blinked into the flashlight's glare.
He began incoherent mutters.
The Shadow quieted the reviving man; with calm tone, he ordered him to
rest. Loyden sank back upon the cloak. His whirling thoughts began to steady.
The Shadow caught words that Loyden uttered. They referred to the treachery of
the unknown co-pilot, who had boarded the plane at Phoenix.
This fitted with The Shadow's understanding of the case. A brief
recollection of the past twenty-four hours told him all that had occurred.
Just one day ago, The Shadow had been in Washington. There, he had been
entrusted with a mission of vital importance to the United States government.
The task demanded that The Shadow go to Lower California, the Mexican
territory just below the California border.
The Shadow had chosen an air route to reach San Diego, intending to
start southward after he reached that city. Somehow, his plans had been
learned by the enemies who plotted against the United States. Knowing that The
Shadow intended to change planes at Phoenix, they had prepared a trap. They
had loaded Loyden's plane with their own agents: those crooks who had posed as
passengers and co-pilot.
Though The Shadow had eliminated a quintet of foemen, he had scarcely
dented the ranks of the enemy. He was up against an organization that might
have agents anywhere. Those vultures in the spying plane were samples. They
had come to view the scene of disaster; they had gone away to report.
They would flash the good news, that The Shadow was dead. The fact that
five of their own kind had also perished, would mean nothing. Probably, the
head of that enemy band had expected his tools to die along with The Shadow.
Who was the head of that organization that had its headquarters in
Mexico?
That was a question that had baffled the state department. It was one
that The Shadow could not yet answer. Today, however, he had uncovered one
important fact. He had learned the symbol that stood as countersign between
the members of the nefarious band.
THE SHADOW had seen the sketched picture of Quetzal, that had been
flashed as a signal for attack. It fitted with news that The Shadow had gained
in Washington. There, he had been told that he would have to deal with an
unknown supercriminal, whose followers knew him only as Quetzal. Why that
master-plotter had chosen the name of an Aztec deity, was a mystery.
The Shadow had gained its answer. The superfoe was called Quetzal
because he had adopted the reptilian god as his chief device in a campaign of
intrigue and murder.
Logically, the plotter who called himself Quetzal would be in Mexico;
here in the territory of Baja California, as the Mexicans termed Lower
California. The crash of the sky liner had brought the Shadow directly to
Mexican soil. He no longer had need to travel by way of San Diego. His best
plan was to find some place of safety where he could leave Jerry Loyden; then
travel on his own.
Thin paper crinkled. The sound made Loyden open his eyes. In the rays of
the flashlight, the pilot saw the hawkish features of The Shadow. Keen eyes
were studying an outspread map, that showed this territory below the Border.
The Shadow's forefinger rested upon the map, indicating this spot in the
desert. Calculating from the plane's speed when it passed Lake Maquita, The
Shadow was able to gauge his present location.
Loyden watched the finger move one direction; then another. At last, it
glided in zigzag fashion, south and west. The Shadow had picked an inhabited
spot that lay nearly twenty miles to the southwest. Though deeper in Mexican
territory, the little settlement was as near as any town above the
International Border.
Turning toward Loyden, The Shadow saw the pilot rising to his feet.
Loyden was thinking of the plane. The last that be remembered was the final
dive. That was enough to tell him that the plane had crashed. Rising also, The
Shadow gripped the pilot's arm; spoke steadily:
"The others are dead. They were murderers, all of them! My testimony
will clear you of all blame."
Loyden nodded, gratefully. The Shadow's words gave him confidence. Then
came another statement.
"Proof will be needed," declared The Shadow, in an even tone. "Until I
gain it, my testimony will be unsupported. Therefore, you must follow my
directions."
Loyden nodded his willingness. The Shadow gathered up the black cloak,
packed it in the briefcase. The sky above was moonless, but the studding stars
were brilliant. The Shadow did not need his compass to find the course he
wanted. Sighting by the North Star, he glimmered his flashlight along the dry
ground ahead and started the southwest journey.
IT was a slow plod through the night. With blinking light, The Shadow
picked pathways between sagebrush and cactus; but the sandy soil made the
march tedious. Fortunately, the night had brought coolness. The Shadow counted
upon reaching his goal by dawn.
For two steady hours, Loyden kept pace with The Shadow's steady march.
Then the pilot's stamina began to fade. The Shadow called for a rest. After
fifteen minutes, they began new progress. Remembering every detail of the map,
The Shadow chose hilly paths where the surface soil was thinner. Nevertheless,
halts became more frequent. The going was becoming tougher for Loyden, every
hour. It was nearly dawn when the marchers reached a high level. As Loyden
sank for another rest, The Shadow spoke and pointed. Far below was a
glimmering light that shone like a grounded star. There were still miles to
go, but Loyden was hardly equal to the task. The Shadow recognized the fact.
From his briefcase, The Shadow produced a brace of automatics and parked
them in deep pockets beneath his coat. He closed the zipper top of the
briefcase; locked it with a little padlock that was imbedded in the leather
end. He placed the briefcase in Loyden's care.
"Wait here," The Shadow told the pilot. "By dawn, I shall return-or send
others."
Starting on his lone trek, The Shadow made more speedy progress. He
unleashed all the effort that he had reserved during the slow march with
Loyden. Guiding for the distant light, he kept to a straight course; but for a
full hour, the glow seemed to move ahead of him. It was like a mirage in the
desert night; a taunting goal that could never be reached.
The Shadow continued, undiscouraged. He knew the trickiness of the dry
desert air, that made distances seem short. He was confident that he had
nearly reached his destination; and the proof came when dawn began its flicker
from the east.
The light still shone upon the darkened ground, but beyond it, The
Shadow saw the outline of mountain tops, forming a background far above.
Nearer than the bases of the mountains, the evasive light could no longer be
far. Dawn increased. The lone light dwindled. In its place, The Shadow saw
buildings less than a mile away. Their size enabled him to gauge the distance
correctly. Some were no more than adobe huts; their appearance indicated that
the little settlement had been deserted. But the building that had furnished
the light was larger, and stood secluded from the abandoned village. The place
was a hacienda, two stories high, surmounted by a watch-tower at one corner of
its surrounding wall.
Once, the hacienda must have been the home of some rich ranchero, whose
peons dwelt in the near-by village. The days of feudal lordship had ended in
Mexico. The peons had gone to more fertile lands. The hacienda was still
occupied; but probably it had changed ownership. Soon, The Shadow would learn
the facts of its present ownership.
DAWN showed The Shadow as a long, striding figure, almost within the
shaded stretches outside the hacienda walls. His gaze was upward. The Shadow
was watching the tower. He saw a motion there.
The Shadow halted; his hand shifted unnoticeably toward his coat. As if
in answer to his gaze, came the sharp query;
"Quien va?"
In answer to the question, "who goes," The Shadow responded in Spanish:
"Un amigo."
The reply seemed sufficient. The Shadow, arriving alone from the desert,
would naturally announce himself as a friend. There was a pause; then the
query:"Va tiene un Americano, no es verad?"
The Shadow gave the affirmative "Si," in reply to the question whether
or not he was an American. He sensed that the statement would bring him a
prompt welcome. That surmise was correct. The shout went below: "Un
Americano!"
Immediately, a gate opened in the wall and a rough-clad Mexican with a
big sombrero beckoned the stranger to enter.
The Shadow was ushered through an inner door, along a hallway of the
building itself, then into a patio surrounded by a balcony. He heard the
clatter of a door above; looked up to see a man who was hurriedly donning a
dressing gown. As the man descended the stairs to the patio, The Shadow saw
that he was an American.
Greetings were prompt. The owner of the hacienda was middle-aged, portly
and broad-faced. His smile added to the friendliness of his face. His eyes
were keen, as they surveyed the wayfarer from the desert. Evidently, the
broad-faced man was impressed by the calmness of The Shadow's hawklike visage,
for he bowed a greeting as he thrust forward a firm hand.
"My name," he rumbled, in basso tone, "is Latimer Creeth. May I ask
yours, sir?"
"I am Lamont Cranston," replied The Shadow. "Lately from New York. More
recently stranded in the desert, due to a forced landing west of Lake
Maquita."
Creeth's eyes opened. He put an amazed question:
"You're not from the air liner reported lost last night?"
"I am," replied The Shadow, calmly. "Moreover, Mr. Creeth, you have
another survivor to care for. I brought the pilot with me. He is resting on
the hillcrest, directly northeast of here."
Creeth clapped his hands; Mexican servants appeared. The portly man gave
prompt orders. Two were to take horses and go immediately to Loyden's rescue.
Creeth snapped the reminder:
"Pronto!" The servants scurried away. Creeth turned to The Shadow.
"Breakfast?" he queried, amiably. "Or would you prefer some sleep
first?"
"A rest would be preferable."
Creeth bowed and indicated the stairway. He conducted The Shadow to a
room on the second floor. As soon as Creeth had gone, The Shadow took account
of his surroundings
From the window, he could see the broad expanse of desert that stretched
to the northeast. Two horsemen were already riding toward the slope where The
Shadow had left Loyden. They were taking a riderless mount with them. Soon,
the pilot would arrive at the hacienda; Loyden, too, would be resting before
the sun's blaze made the desert intolerable.
CALMLY, The Shadow locked the door. He lowered the window shade, laid
aside his coat and automatics. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched upon a
comfortable bed and closed his eyes. He was taking advantage of the coming
hours, to gain a needed rest. Sleep was important to The Shadow-not because of
past fatigue, but because of work that lay ahead.
Before this day ended, The Shadow intended to be on his way. The
apparent security of the hacienda did not deceive him. Not only did The Shadow
have a mission to perform; there was still a chance that enemies would learn
of his escape from death. If they did, their efforts would become relentless.
In fact, The Shadow had a definite hunch that his chance arrival at this
obscure hacienda was something that the supercrook called Quetzal would surely
learn. Seemingly, the agents of Quetzal were everywhere.
The Shadow's conclusion was like a glimpse into the future. This day was
to mark new efforts by those who served the mysterious Quetzal. Again, death
would stalk The Shadow.
CHAPTER III
CREETH'S VISITORS
EARLY in the afternoon, The Shadow came from his room and descended to
the patio. There, he encountered one of the Mexican servants, who informed him
that Creeth was in the living room.
The Shadow found the portly hacienda owner there. Creeth was pleased
that his guest had awakened. He ordered lunch for two.
The living room was at the front of the hacienda; its windows showed an
open stretch of ground that ended with the surrounding wall. The Shadow could
see the high tower at the corner; noted that a watcher was on duty. Then he
turned to hear a statement from Creeth.
"We brought in Loyden," informed Creeth. "He was fagged out. He is
sleeping in another room, upstairs. I would say that his nerves were pretty
well shocked because of that crash."
"Quite naturally," responded The Shadow. "The co-pilot went berserk. He
snatched the controls from Loyden. That was why the ship cracked up."
"There were other passengers beside yourself?"
"Yes. Four. They were trapped with the co-pilot. Tell me about the
reports you heard, Mr. Creeth."
Creeth gave the facts. He had heard them over the radio, the night
before. Loyden's plane had failed to arrive at San Diego; a search had been
instituted all along the route. It was conceded that the plane had crashed;
but no trace of the wreckage had been discovered.
"Loyden was far south of his course," explained The Shadow. "The
co-pilot must have gone completely insane. From what Loyden told me, the
fellow handed him false flying orders."
Creeth raised his eyebrows, as he queried: "Does that sound credible,
Mr. Cranston?"
"I believe it," replied The Shadow-"because Loyden had no reason to fly
south of his course. Unfortunately, the orders were burned in the wreck."
"That will make it bad for Loyden," nodded Creeth, "when he returns
across the Border."
"Not if he remains a while in Mexico. He can do that quite easily, since
he is supposed to have died in the crash."
Creeth pondered over The Shadow's remark. Quietly, The Shadow added:
"I have friends in Mexico City. Loyden can go there."
"Quite easily," agreed Creeth. "I can arrange to have a plane stop here,
en route from San Diego to Mexico City, to pick up both of you."
"I am not going to Mexico City."
Creeth looked quizzical. The Shadow stepped to the wall; pointed to a
large map that hung there. He placed his finger just below the International
Boundary, and remarked:
"This hacienda is located here-"
"A half inch farther south," interposed Creeth. "There-you have the
exact spot."
"That makes my journey a little longer," declared The Shadow. "If you
can spare a horse, Mr. Creeth, I can ride northwest to Tia Juana and cross the
Border from there. I wish to reach San Diego."
CREETH joined The Shadow at the map. The portly man placed his finger on
Tia Juana, where the Border met the Pacific Coast. Running his hand down the
coast line, Creeth stopped at the Mexican town of Ensenada, some fifty miles
south of Tia Juana. He marked a southwest line between the hacienda's location
and that of Ensenada.
"Ride to Ensenada," he suggested, "instead of to Tia Juana. The distance
is about the same, your course will be southwest instead of northwest. You can
take a steamer from Ensenada up to San Diego."
The suggestion pleased The Shadow. Ensenada was his actual destination;
but he had preferred not to reveal that fact. It was still good policy to
object to Creeth's plan.
"Ensenada is out of the way," declared The Shadow. "I have no reason to
go there."
"Except one," replied Creeth, gravely. "Your trip will be safer. You
will escape the bandits that are between here and Tia Juana."
"Bandits?" The Shadow showed surprise in his question. "I thought they
were gone from this part of Mexico."
Creeth shook his head. Sitting down at the table, he began a detailed
explanation.
"Like other Americans," he stated, "I have interests in racing stables
at Tia Juana. Because of the Mexican laws, it proved advisable for me to live
in Mexico. I heard of this hacienda. I purchased it cheaply; and like it so
well that I wondered why no one else had chosen it as a residence. I learned
why, when I received a visit from Sancho Maringuez."
The name Maringuez was a new one to The Shadow. He inferred that Sancho
Maringuez must be one of the bandits of whom Creeth had spoken. Creeth's next
words proved that correct.
"Maringuez is a smooth customer," declared the hacienda owner. "Here in
Mexico, he has started a racket that compares with those in New York and other
American cities. He covers the road between here and Tia Juana, offering what
he calls 'protection' for travelers. I found it cheaper to pay for such
protection, than to ignore it.
"Anything may happen to a traveler who ventures along those roads
without paying the price. Of course, Maringuez has nothing to do with it."
Creeth shook his head, as he spoke in a sarcastic drawl. "No, indeed.
Maringuez protects his friends. But those who do not pay are not the friends
of Maringuez.
"Since you have not paid, I advise you to avoid that road. Maringuez
does not patrol between here and Ensenada, for travelers are few. Therefore,
the route to Ensenada is the one to take."
"Unless," remarked The Shadow, "I arranged to pay the toll fee."
"Unless I paid it," objected Creeth. "The mere fact that you have come
here, makes me responsible. I already owe Maringuez two thousand pesos, by his
method of calculation. Half for you; half for Loyden. That is why I do not
inform Maringuez when I have guests. It is cheaper to keep a man as lookout in
the watch tower."
ALMOST like an answer to Creeth's statement, came a call in Spanish from
the tower. Another man relayed it. The Shadow heard the name "Maringuez"
uttered in excited shouts. Creeth came to his feet with an exclamation. He
clapped for a servant, ordered the man to summon Loyden and bring the pilot's
bag. Loyden arrived sleepily a few minutes later. His bag proved to be the
briefcase, which he handed to The Shadow. Creeth stepped to the wall at the
rear of the living room, found a catch and slid back a panel to reveal a
small, secret room.
"This is where the ranchero used to hide his gold," he declared, grimly
"Bandits were tougher then than Maringuez; but he is as smooth as any could
be. Stay out of sight here, while I deal with him."
Through a tiny crack in the panel, The Shadow watched proceedings in the
room that he and Loyden had left. The Shadow had his briefcase with him; and
Creeth was hastily ordering the removal of the extra lunch plates that
indicated a guest. That had scarcely been done before there were shouts from
the outside wall. The gate swung open; a dozen horsemen clattered through and
dismounted.
Creeth received Maringuez in the living room. The bandit was a short,
squarish man, who wore a Mexican costume that had once been gaudy. Velvet
trousers and gold-braided velvet jacket showed signs of long wear. So did the
fancy sombrero that Maringuez tossed upon the lunch table.
The bandit's face was sallow. Fully rounded, it gave him a moonish
expression; but there was nothing of softness in the downtwist of his lips.
Maringuez's smile was an odd one; so was the glint that came from his narrowed
eyes, set wide on either side of his broad nose. Maringuez darted glances
everywhere, before centering his gaze upon the lunch table.
"Ah, senor," he purred to Creeth, "I have come too late to have lunch
with you. I am sorry, so sorry! But still"-he shrugged his shoulders-"why
should I ask what you do not give to other guests?"
"To other guests?" demanded Creeth. "What other guests, Maringuez?"
"The Americanos who arrived this morning from the desert. Perhaps they
are asleep, eh? That is why they have not eaten lunch with you? Ah, si. That
must be it."
"I have no guests here, Maringuez."
"Ah, no? I am so sorry, Senor Creeth." Head tilted, Maringuez began to
roll himself a cigarette, watching his hands as he spoke. "That is too bad,
senor. I have heard that you have dos amigos, two friends, who would be glad
to pay me one thousand pesos each before they travel to Tia Juana.
"But perhaps those friends do not wish to meet me? They may have heard
bad things said of Sancho Maringuez. Ah, senor, I must look for them and tell
them that I am their friend. They will be glad to give me the two thousand
pesos."
MARINGUEZ'S followers had entered with him. They were a nondescript
bunch of ill-clad ruffians. Maringuez turned to them, spat words in Spanish.
The bandits grimaced like pleased monkeys. Maringuez was ordering a search of
the hacienda.
The Shadow heard the names by which Maringuez addressed some of his
subordinates. One scar-faced fellow was called Tompino; Maringuez sent him
upstairs with a pair of men. Another, who boasted a leering, pockmarked
countenance, was Poroq. Maringuez sent him outside, with others. He reminded
Poroq to send a man up to inspect the watch tower.
Creeth raised objection, fearing that the bandit's men might clash with
his own. Maringuez remarked suavely that it was not his affair, if they did.
Leaving two servants in the living room, Creeth hurried outside to prevent any
disturbance.
That seemed to please Maringuez. With a chuckle, the bandit settled in a
chair and placed his feet upon the cushions of another. His spurs dug into the
upholstery, but the bandit cared nothing for Creeth's furniture. Blandly
puffing his cigarette, he ordered his remaining men to search the ground floor
and report to him.
Perhaps Creeth's departure had bluffed Maringuez. The bandit,
apparently, did not regard the living room as a likely hiding place. He
chanced to glance toward the paneled wall; but his eyes showed no suspicion of
the partition that hid The Shadow and Loyden from his view.
Maringuez rolled another cigarette, after he had finished the first one.
He was through with his second smoke when his men began to return.
Tompino and Poroq both reported a blank search. So did the men who had
scoured the ground floor. Maringuez came up angrily from his chair, began a
series of harsh oaths that ended when he saw Creeth enter from the outside.
The bandit's suave manner returned.
"Ah, senor," asserted Maringuez. "It seems that you are right. You have
no amigos here. It is too bad that I have troubled you. Soon you will go to
Tia Juana, for the races. Buenos! Your trip will be a safe one. You shall have
the protection of Sancho Maringuez.
"But should others ride to Tia Juana and meet me on the way, I shall ask
them if they are friends of Senor Creeth. Should they say 'Si,' I shall say:
摘要：

QUETZALbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedinTheShadowMagazineFebruary15,1937CHAPTERIFORCEDLANDINGTHEREwerefivepassengersaboardthesilver-huedplanethatwasdroningwestwardacrosstheCaliforniadesert.AllwerepersonswhohadboardedtheshipatPhoenix,Arizona,fordirectflighttoSanDiego.MorethananhouroutofPhoenix,th...

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