Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 108 - Terror Island

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TERROR ISLAND
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A CROOK IS TRAPPED
? CHAPTER II. A POSTPONED TRAIL
? CHAPTER III. OUTBOUND FROM HAVANA
? CHAPTER IV. THE STORM STRIKES
? CHAPTER V. STRANGE WELCOMES
? CHAPTER VI. THE UNSEEN GUEST
? CHAPTER VII. CAVERNS OF WEALTH
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW ACTS
? CHAPTER IX. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER XI. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S CHALLENGE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE TRAP IS LAID
? CHAPTER XIV. THE PRISONER TALKS
? CHAPTER XV. THE NEW GAME
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW WAITS
? CHAPTER XVII. ABOARD THE DALMATIA
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE ATTACK
? CHAPTER XIX. STROKE AND COUNTER-STROKE
? CHAPTER XX. MEN MARKED FOR DEATH
? CHAPTER XXI. FIGHTERS OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XXII. THE LAST STROKE
? CHAPTER XXIII. NEW DAWN
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 upon 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.
Then came the unexpected counter-move, for which Dalavan had not dared to hope. There was a
sudden clatter from the veranda. An attacker hurtled into the room. It was Lovett; the servant had gone
out by the front door, to return by way of the veranda.
Gun in hand, Lovett had spotted The Shadow; but the accomplice had been too wise to take out time for
aim. Instead, he had launched into a driving attack, covering the dozen feet from the veranda to the
desk.
The Shadow's move was proof that Lovett had played the best bet. Wheeling instantly, The Shadow
whipped forth his left-hand gun, pulling the trigger as he made the draw. The .45 boomed; its bullet
would have dropped Lovett, had the servant been the fraction of a second slower. As it was, Lovett was
making a dive as The Shadow fired. The bullet seared the top of the crook's left shoulder.
Lovett landed on The Shadow. Viciously, the servant swung his revolver. The Shadow parried it; drove a
blow toward Lovett's head. Only a lucky bob saved Lovett at that instant. Clutching The Shadow, the
crook skidded away from the desk, dragging his black-clad foeman with him.
Dalavan saw instantly what the result would be. Despite Lovett's fury, The Shadow had full control. He
was swinging the servant about, in order to take aim at Dalavan. A lucky twist of the servant gave
Dalavan a second's chance. The murderer took it. He leaped for the desk; grabbed up the suitcase that
held the tiara, money and incriminating evidence.
The Shadow's right-hand gun spoke.
A bullet chipped woodwork from the desk's edge. Dalavan dived for the French windows. Twice, a .45
responded, shattering glass from the open windows. Lovett, fighting like a fiend, had managed to offset
The Shadow's aim. Dalavan gained the clear.
Balked by Lovett's tenacity, The Shadow wrenched away from the servant, spilling the fellow to the
floor. Twisting, he made after Dalavan. His first step brought trouble. The Shadow's foot caught upon
one of Bagland's outstretched ankles.
Head foremost, The Shadow hit the floor. Lovett, coming to hands and knees, saw the disaster. Wildly,
the crook pounced upon The Shadow, swinging his gun as he came.
The Shadow rolled as Lovett struck. Face upward, he shifted his head to the right. Lovett's blow glanced
from the side of the slouch hat; simultaneously, The Shadow pulled a trigger. Lovett's lips coughed a
gasp; the servant rolled from The Shadow's shoulder.
GROGGILY, The Shadow came to his feet; swung toward the veranda, ready with a gun. Lovett's blow
had partly dazed the cloaked fighter. The Shadow was steadying himself, to take up the pursuit of
Dalavan. As he stood by the desk, The Shadow heard a motor's rising roar, some distance from the
bungalow.
It was the sound of a departing plane. Dalavan had come here by air, taking advantage of a clearing that
must have given him an excellent landing field. The murderous crook was off to a speedy get-away,
carrying his spoils with him. Pursuit was useless.
Looking past Lovett's body, The Shadow saw the form of James Tolwig. Stooping, he plucked the
paper that Dalavan had wanted. The Shadow's lips phrased a whispered laugh as his eyes saw the
gryphon shield. The sheet of paper went beneath The Shadow's cloak.
Though The Shadow did not know the name of the murderer who had escaped, he had seen George
Dalavan face to face; hence he would know the man when he met him again. Moreover, The Shadow
knew Dalavan's part; that the man was merely the representative of a hidden big shot. The paper with the
gryphon shield must have some bearing upon the mastermind who had given Dalavan orders for tonight's
crime.
From this single shred of evidence, The Shadow could hunt down evil men. It was a quest that would
challenge his full ability; but The Shadow had met such tests before. For the present, however, he was
forced to postpone the quest.
Striding from the room of death, The Shadow departed by the veranda. He found his parked car,
boarded it, then set out in the direction of Miami. Present plans called for The Shadow's return to
Havana, where he had left one mission in order to make his expedition to Tolwig's Florida home.
The Shadow had postponed a trail. He intended to return to it as soon as a definite mission was
accomplished. That return would come sooner than The Shadow supposed. Oddly, his postponement
was to prove the shortest route by which The Shadow could reach George Dalavan and the supercrook
who ruled that man of murder.
CHAPTER III. OUTBOUND FROM HAVANA
IT was the next afternoon in Havana. A trim yacht was docked beside a harbor pier; on the deck stood a
firm-faced man whose shocky, black hair was streaked with gray. He was Kingdon Feldworth, owner of
the yacht; the vessel was the Maldah, from New York, as the name on the stern testified.
Trucks had pulled up at the pier. Dark-faced Cubans were unloading crates and boxes. As stevedores
took charge of these objects, Feldworth called an order in English. The stevedores were acquainted well
enough with the language to understand that they were to take the boxes to the main cabin.
While the boxes were being carried aboard, a man strolled up to the pier. He was an American, about
forty years of age, dressed in youthful style. His eyes were sharp and quick of glance; his lips wore a
smile that looked like a fixed expression. This arrival peered upward toward the deck, saw Feldworth go
below.
Hands in his pockets, the man with the fixed smile waited until the boxes were all aboard; then he went
up the gangplank. He was a guest aboard the yacht - one who had taken the cruise from New York.
His name was Bram Jalway; he was a business promoter who had traveled to many places in the world.
Because of that experience, he had easily formed an acquaintance with Kingdon Feldworth. The yacht
owner was a great traveler, and always made friends with other globe-trotters.
Not long after Jalway had gone aboard, the stevedores reappeared with empty boxes. These were
loaded back upon the trucks; as the vehicles pulled away, two other persons arrived at the pier. One was
a quiet, solemn-faced man who was puffing at a cigarette. The other was a girl, a striking brunette, whose
eyes were large and dark.
The man was Seth Hadlow, a sportsman who was reputed to be a millionaire. Like Bram Jalway, Seth
Hadlow was a guest aboard the yacht. The girl was Francine Feldworth, niece of Kingdon Feldworth.
She always accompanied her uncle when he made a cruise aboard the Maldah.
Hadlow and Francine stopped when they reached the deck. The sportsman lighted another cigarette; the
girl looked ruefully across the rail and studied the Havana sky line.
"We'll be leaving Cuba soon," declared Francine. "I wish we could stay longer here, Seth."
"So do I," agreed Hadlow.
Sailors were coming to the deck. They began to prepare the yacht for departure. It was Francine who
spoke suddenly. The girl was looking across the rail. She laughed as she pointed.
"There goes Professor Marcolm, Seth."
An elderly man was jogging toward the pier, panting as he ran. His chin was tilted against his chest; his
white hair was shaggy beneath the old felt hat he was wearing. In one hand he had a large carpetbag; in
the other, he was lugging a cylindrical bundle rolled in oilskin.
Professor Marcolm gained the top of the gangplank. The old man smiled as he nodded to Hadlow and
Francine. Puffing, he went below.
VARIOUS delays prevented the prompt departure of the yacht. The sun had set when the Maldah finally
started from its pier. Hadlow and Francine went below, for the girl said that she felt unhappy about
leaving Havana and did not care to be on deck when the yacht cleared port. They came to the door of
the main cabin. It was closed. Francine knocked; she heard her uncle give the word to come in.
Entering, Francine and Hadlow found Kingdon Feldworth seated in a chair at the end of the elegant
cabin. His back was toward a wall that displayed a series of heavy oak panels. With the grizzled yacht
owner was Bram Jalway. The sharp-eyed promoter was puffing at a briar pipe; his lips, as they held the
pipe's stem, still kept their half-smile.
Francine looked anxiously toward her uncle. She noticed that his face was grim.
"What is the trouble?" inquired the girl. "You look worried, uncle."
"Nothing at all," protested Feldworth.
"I don't believe you, uncle."
Feldworth seemed at loss for another statement. Bram Jalway supplied one. Removing his briar pipe
from his lips, the promoter remarked:
"Your uncle has reason to be worried, Francine. Storm warnings are being posted. The captain gave us
the news a short while a ago."
Feldworth managed a pleased smile.
"Yes," he agreed, "that is the trouble, Francine. We may run into a hurricane. I did not want to tell you, to
alarm you. That is the real trouble."
The statement satisfied Francine. Kingdon Feldworth looked relieved; to Bram Jalway, he nodded his
head in appreciation. The promoter smiled in response and went back to puffing his briar pipe.
IN proof of the weather prophecies, the Maldah encountered heavy swells just a little before dinner.
When the meal was over, passengers retired somewhat early.
Kingdon Feldworth, however, remained in the main cabin. He stood there alone; his face showed signs
of nervous twitching. Finally satisfied that he was unwatched, the yacht owner went to the heavy oak
panels at the end of the room; he found a catch and opened the woodwork.
A fabulous sight was revealed. Hanging within the compartment were jeweled tapestries - shimmering
decorations done in cloths of gold. Feldworth opened a small chest; the raised lid revealed gold itself, in
the form of coins. Feldworth opened another box; jewels sparkled. Suddenly, the yacht owner turned
about; he eyed the door suspiciously.
Feldworth had fancied that he heard a noise at the door. Finally satisfied that it was his imagination, he
closed the boxes. Shutting the panel, Feldworth eyed it; then, reluctantly, he turned out the light. He
opened the door in darkness and went through a dimly lighted passage.
A few minutes after Feldworth was gone, a blackened shape materialized from a corner of the passage.
A cloaked figure came into view. There, in this portion of the heaving yacht, stood The Shadow.
With a gloved hand, The Shadow opened the door of the main cabin. He entered, closed the door
behind him. Using a flashlight, The Shadow approached the panels at the end of the room.
The woodwork clicked under the touch of a skilled hand. The panels came back; The Shadow's light
revealed the interior of the secret compartment. The Shadow eyed Feldworth's treasures; he studied the
contents of the boxes. A brief estimate told him that these belongings were worth in excess of a million
dollars.
There was a small, flat box that Feldworth had not opened. In it, The Shadow found letters and other
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TERRORISLANDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ACROOKISTRAPPED?CHAPTERII.APOSTPONEDTRAIL?CHAPTERIII.OUTBOUNDFROMHAVANA?CHAPTERIV.THESTORMSTRIKES?CHAPTERV.STRANGEWELCOMES?CHAPTERVI.THEUNSEENGUEST?CHAPTERVII.CAVERNSOFWEALTH?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOWACTS?CHA...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：80 页 大小：200.89KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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