Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 071 - The Plot Master

THE PLOT MASTER

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. THE MASTER PLOTTER

? CHAPTER II. ON DEATH ISLAND

? CHAPTER III. TO THE SHADOW

? CHAPTER IV. THE TRAITOR

? CHAPTER V. THE CLOSED TRAP

? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW WAITS

? CHAPTER VII. AT CEDAR COVE

? CHAPTER VIII. THE CONFERENCE

? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW STRIKES

? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S TURN

? CHAPTER XI. ON THE NORTHERN EXPRESS

? CHAPTER XII. FROM THE NIGHT

? CHAPTER XIII. IN WASHINGTON

? CHAPTER XIV. REPORTS RECEIVED

? CHAPTER XV. TERMS AGREED

? CHAPTER XVI. TERMS ARE MET

? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW LAUGHS

? CHAPTER XVIII. WEDNESDAY BEFORE TWO

? CHAPTER XIX. WEDNESDAY AFTER TWO

? CHAPTER XX. TO THE HIDE-OUT

? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S FIGHT

? CHAPTER XXII. PURSUIT DELAYED

? CHAPTER XXIII. HIGH WATER MARK

? CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST SETTLEMENT

CHAPTER I. THE MASTER PLOTTER

A MAN was seated by the window of a luxurious living room. From this apartment, high in an

exclusive Manhattan hotel, he commanded a sweeping view of Central Park, which lay

spread beneath a dreary afternoon sky.

Smoking a thin cigar, this man seemed indolent as he surveyed the vista below. His eyes

were languid; his face showed pale by the light from the window. Then, awaking from his

reverie, he took on a change of countenance.

A twisted smile appeared upon the man's large lips. His eyes, half closing, gave him an evil

leer. With a violent gesture, he flung his cigar into an ashtray. With fists half clenched, he

arose and stared toward the door.

His scowl showed impatience. He was expecting some one who had not yet arrived.

Glancing at his watch, the waiting man emitted a low snarl that brooked ill for the person

whom he was expecting. Then, as in answer to the man's impatience, the door of the living

room opened.

The man at the window, tall in stature, glared venomously at the heavy, stalwart fellow who

entered. He waited until the arrival had closed the door. Then, in a harsh voice, he

demanded:

"Well, Marling. What has delayed you?"

"Sorry, chief," returned the arrival, in an apologetic tone. "Holley was out when I called at the

Century Casting Company. I had to wait until he came back."

"Any news from Cedar Cove?"

"Nothing new."

The tall man grunted his disappointment. His lips, however, resumed their evil smile as

some new thought came to his mind. Then Marling produced a newspaper and, with a grin,

handed it to his chief.

The tall man stared at the evening issue. There, on the front page, was a photograph of

himself, wearing the mild expression that he had owned before Marling's arrival. Beneath it

was the name "Eric Hildrow."

"They know you're back from Cuba, chief," informed Marling, still holding his grin. "They've

run that canned interview you gave them about the conditions on the sugar plantations. It

ought to please the senator, to know you're back."

"He is pleased," asserted Hildrow. "A letter arrived while you were absent.

"From Washington, sent by Senator Ross Releston himself. He states that he will soon be

ready to receive my report on Pan-American trade conditions. Cuban sugar interests the

good senator."

A SARCASTIC smile was flickering on Hildrow's lips. The expression revealed him as a

man of cunning. Marling nodded in approval of his chief's statements.

"That fits in with Stollart's last report," declared Marling. "The one that came to the Brooklyn

post office yesterday, addressed to J.T. Ushwell."

"The name I use with Stollart," remarked Hildrow. "He was really bought over—that

fellow—and he stands well with Senator Releston."

"You're sure that Stollart doesn't suspect -"

"That J.T. Ushwell and Eric Hildrow are one? Not a chance of it! No more than Senator

Releston could suspect that I am playing a double game. My contacts with Releston have

been entirely above board. I met him on business that pertains to international trade

conditions. He regards me as an authority on such subjects.

"In fact, it was only in a passing manner that I learned of the senator's interest in the new

submarine that Commander Dadren is developing at Cedar Cove. I took Stollart into our

fold; and he has learned the rest. That keeps me in the clear."

"Smart work, chief," commented Marling.

"In Havana," remarked Hildrow, "I contacted with a certain agent. I can tell you this, Marling:

once we have gained the plans to Dadren's submarine, we can reap millions. I told the man

in Havana just enough to arouse his full enthusiasm."

"One trouble, chief," objected Marling. "Negotiations before you have the plans—well, it

might queer the game."

"How? I did not mention Dadren's name. The agent in Havana knows nothing of the

experimental work at Cedar Cove."

"But he might trace it through you."

"Do you think I am a fool?" snarled Hildrow. "Sometimes, Marling, you betray stupidity! I did

not see that agent in my own identity of Eric Hildrow. I was Senor Angoston, from Buenos

Aires, when I called on him."

"You were in disguise?"

"Certainly. With sallow face, a little pointed mustache"- Hildrow paused to press his fingers

against his features—"and darkened eyebrows. I talked in Spanish. The man in Havana

thought I was in from South America.

"Always a disguise, Marling. That is the way I work. You do not appreciate it, for you are one

who has my confidence. But with others - bah!—unless I can trust them, why should I reveal

my real identity?"

Hildrow chuckled as he strolled by the window. His pose had become languid again; he was

almost dreamy as he stared out toward Central Park. Then, with characteristic suddenness,

the plotter turned and snapped a question at Marling.

"Come!" he exclaimed. "You say that there is no new word from our man at Cedar Cove. He

has gained no opportunity to seize the plans?"

"None at all."

"What about the commander? Does he still intend to make his trip to Washington?

Tomorrow?"

"Apparently."

"That coincides with Stollart's report," nodded Hildrow. "The senator expects Dadren. We

have known that for some time. Very well. When Commander Dadren flies to Washington,

we shall gain the plans. What else was in the post office box, Marling?"

"A letter from Wenshell. He is still at Tarksburg, Virginia, with the air circus."

"All ready for any orders?"

"Yes. They are stranded there. They will break up as soon as he announces that he is out of

funds."

"That will be to-day?"

"Yes. To-night."

"Good!"

HILDROW assumed a pleased smile. The expression was an ugly one. Here, with only

Marling to view him, the master plotter made no effort to cover his actual character.

"There was word from Korsch," stated Marling. "All quiet on the Potomac."

"Good!" laughed Hildrow. "The river air is excellent. Perhaps Dadren will enjoy it also."

"And a report from Nuland," added Marling. "He is waiting at Marrinack, Connecticut.

Watching Death Island. Another search is to be made in Professor Whitburn's study."

"Another search?" quizzed Hildrow, angrily. "I thought that had been accomplished."

"Apparently it had, chief. But there still seems to be a chance that Professor Whitburn has a

duplicate set of Commander Dadren's plans. A letter came in from Cedar Cove -"

"Enough, Marling!" snarled Hildrow. "This may ruin everything!"

"How, chief? If we grab Dadren's plans -"

"They will be worthless if Professor Whitburn has copies. This search must not fail. What is

more, it must be accomplished to-night. At any cost!"

"Nuland says it will be -"

"But Nuland is not infallible." Hildrow yanked a watch from his pocket and studied the dial.

"Four o'clock. How long will it take me to reach Lake Marrinack?"

"By car?"

"Yes."

"From three to four hours."

"That is sufficient. Come, Marling. I want to talk to you while I am preparing."

Hildrow paced across the living room. He entered a small dressing room and seated

himself at a table before a mirror. Bringing out a box of make-up equipment, he began a

transformation of his features.

MARLING watched in admiration, as his chief applied a brownish ointment that took away

the pallor of his face. Then came action on the eyebrows. Tugging at them, Hildrow made

them double in size. He dipped his fingers in a glossy cream and repeated the process. His

eyebrows became almost black.

Flattening his sleek hair, Hildrow produced a tight-fitting wig, with heavy black hair. He

donned it and surveyed his face. Then, with a final leer, he produced a chunky black

mustache. Dabbing his upper lip with spirit gum, he put on the last article of disguise.

As an afterthought, the plotter dug in a small box and found a small gold tooth. He slipped

this over the upper bicuspid; then grinned at his reflection in the mirror. The fake gold tooth

glimmered as Hildrow smiled.

Arising, Hildrow faced Marling. The tool stared. He would never have recognized his chief.

The disguise, though exaggerated, was perfect, so far as a concealment of the plotter's

normal features.

"Call the Western Garage, Marling," ordered Hildrow. "Tell them to have Mr. Collender's

coupe ready. I have the licenses"- he tapped his pocket—"and they have never seen Mr.

Collender in person. They will see him now for the first time."

"All right, chief. Only one thing. When Nuland sees you -"

"He will recognize me. This is the disguise that I have always used with him. Moreover, he

will recognize his countersign when I give it."

Marling nodded as he went to call the garage. Hildrow remained in front of the mirror. He

adjusted his disguise; then reached in a table drawer and produced a pack of cork-tipped

cigarettes. They went with the character that the plotter had assumed. Hildrow smoked

panatela cigars only when he was himself.

TEN minutes later, a black-haired, mustached man strolled unnoticed from the lobby of the

big apartment hotel. He hailed a passing cab and ordered the driver to take him to the

Western Garage. Arrived there, he found a gray coupe standing just within the door.

The mustached man produced his license cards and handed them to the attendant. While

the garage man was reading the name of Logan Collender, Hildrow was lighting a

cork-tipped cigarette. The attendant returned the cards.

"All right, Mr. Collender," he said. "Here's your car. The tank's full. We changed the oil."

A nod. A glimmer of a gold tooth. Then Eric Hildrow, alias Logan Collender, entered the

coupe and drove from the garage. The master plotter was on his way to Lake Marrinack.

CHAPTER II. ON DEATH ISLAND

EARLY evening had arrived. Gloomy darkness had settled upon the waters of Lake

Marrinack. A silent surface, undisturbed by ripples, had replaced the sparkling blue that

distinguished this sheet of water.

Secluded from traveled highway, Lake Marrinack was a seldom-visited spot. Even the

residents of the near-by town of Marrinack shunned the lake, for the place was one of evil

superstitions. Weird rumors persisted regarding Lake Marrinack; and they centered chiefly

on the solitary isle that rested in the midst of the lake.

Death Island it was called. The name had double significance. Not only had doom befallen

upon certain persons who had lived there; the island also gave a foreboding appearance of

death itself. Looming a mile out in the lake, the front cliff of Death Island bore a remarkable

resemblance to a mammoth skull, grinning above the level of the waters.

Viewed in the paling twilight, Death Island was a fearful spot. Approach was impossible by

the front, for the huge cliff offered no landing place. At one side of the island was a secluded

cove. There, a small dock formed a landing spot. Beyond that, there was no visible sign of

human habitation on the island.

Thick woods obscured the lone house that stood behind the cliff. Yet the house itself was

large. It was located in almost the exact center of the small island; and those visitors who

had actually approached it agreed that the house was as spooky-looking as Death Island

itself.

With walls of blackened stone, the house loomed forbidding among the trees. Long and

high, it was flat-roofed, save for a square tower near the rear of the building. That tower, a

white-walled addition to the house itself, looked like a ghostly form that had sprouted from

the level roof.

Dim lights shone from the windows of the house on Death Island. Bars showed on those

same windows. The strange abode was one in which uninvited visitors could expect no

welcome. Curious people stayed away from the house on Death Island.

WITHIN the house was a room that contrasted oddly with the dull exterior. This was the front

room on the ground floor. It was the private study of Professor Arthur Whitburn, the old

inventor who owned the house on Death Island. Professor Whitburn's study was a cheery,

well-lighted room.

This room was in great disorder. A large bookcase ranged along one wall, and fully half of

its volumes had been removed. These missing books had not gone far. They were strewn

about the study. Stacks on the tables, stacks on the chairs, stacks on the floor; besides

these were other books, dropped at random, here and there.

In addition to the books, the floor and the furniture held mussed heaps of papers. Glass jars,

pieces of metal tubing, odd-looking mechanical contrivances added to the chaos. There

was a shelf in the corner where these articles belonged; it was a disorderly as the room.

Professor Whitburn had piled bottles and tubes haphazardly upon that shelf.

There was a desk near the center of the room. It was also a hodge-podge of books, papers,

and apparatus. The only object that appeared to be in its proper place was the telephone. It

stood at an angle, however, for it had been propped upon a crazy stack of handwritten

manuscripts.

A wide window sill was also well littered with papers; but this spot showed some semblance

of order. A large tiger-cat had chosen the sill for a resting place. Nestled there, the creature

looked over the room with an expression of part ownership. The cat seemed quite at home

in its select spot.

In fact, the cat was quite alert despite its assumed laziness. This was proven when the

animal rose and arched its back when it detected the sound of footsteps from the corridor

outside the study. Then, as the door opened, the cat nestled back on the window sill. It had

recognized the approach of its master.

PROFESSOR WHITBURN entered the study. Old, stooped and thin, he was a man of

curious appearance. His hair formed an untrimmed mass of white. His mustache —also

white—was long, with drooping ends. But the professor's eyes were keen. His sharp gaze

noted the cat settling back upon the window sill.

"Hello, Quex," chuckled the professor, approaching to stroke the cat. "What is the trouble?

Has something disturbed you?"

The cat responded with a plaintive meow. The old man studied the animal closely. Quex

blinked and emitted another meow. Then the cat subsided under the professor's friendly

strokes. While he quieted his pet, Whitburn stared about the room in suspicious fashion.

A glare appeared upon the old man's countenance. With sharp eyes, the professor surveyed

the stacks of books and heaps of papers. He moved away from the window sill and

approached the desk. He lifted the telephone and looked at the manuscript beneath it. He

picked up books and replaced them. Nodding, the old man turned toward the cat.

"You are right, Quex," declared Professor Whitburn. "Some one has been intruding here.

You know when matters are wrong, don't you, old fellow?"

Pausing, Whitburn again looked about the room. He muttered to himself, then spoke half

aloud, as if addressing the cat.

"Whoever came here was a fool," asserted the Professor. "He thought that I would not know.

He believed that this disarray was pure carelessness on my part. Others have thought the

same. They do not realize that I remember the exact place where I lay each object."

Again, a brief inspection. The cat watched the professor go to the bookcase and look at

volumes that rested there, at an angle. Then the professor chuckled. His tone, however,

betrayed anger along with mirth. Wheeling, he stalked to the door and opened it.

"Polmore!"

The professor paused after calling the name. He waited a few seconds; then heard a

response from somewhere in the house. Footsteps followed. A frail, peak-faced man

appeared from the corridor.

Whitburn beckoned the fellow into the study.

"Polmore," he cackled, "you are my secretary. Your services, however, are limited to

handling my correspondence. You would find it difficult to locate objects in this room, would

you not?"

"Yes, sir," responded Polmore.

"Do you think that I could discover anything if I looked for it?" demanded Whitburn.

"Perhaps, sir," assented the secretary. "But I should class a search as difficult."

"You are wrong, Polmore," chuckled the professor. "I could locate any book —any

paper—almost instantly! That surprises you? I thought it would."

"Is anything missing, sir?"

"No. But articles have been moved. Polmore, I tell you some one has been prying in this

study!"

"Impossible, sir! I was in here only a short while ago -"

"And you saw nothing amiss? That is no argument, Polmore. Not unless you disturbed my

arrangements."

"No indeed, sir. I came in here only to learn if you had instructions for this evening."

"And you saw no one?"

"No one, sir."

The professor eyed his secretary sharply. Then, in a raspy tone, he demanded:

"Where is Stephen?"

"In the laboratory, sir."

"And Bragg?"

"Upstairs, I believe."

"Summon them, Polmore. At once."

The secretary departed, closing the door behind him. Old Whitburn advanced to the window

sill and began to stroke the cat. All the while, the old man's roving glance kept moving about

the room. Then, with a crafty smile upon his face, Whitburn went to the desk.

From a drawer, he produced an automatic. Placing it on the desk, Whitburn drew a large

watch from his pocket. He detached the timepiece from its chain. He opened the back and

removed a tiny key that lay within.

Turning to the bookcase, the professor ran his hand along an ornamental molding at the top.

His fingers stopped and pressed; then moved to the left. A portion of the molding went

inward and slid beneath the next section. An opening showed; within it was a strip of metal,

with a tiny keyhole.

WHILE Whitburn was going through this procedure, the door of the room was slowly

opening. Some one was peering into the study. A watcher was observing the old man's

actions.

Whitburn turned to the desk and picked up the key with his left hand; the automatic with his

right. Intent, the old man did not know that a spy was watching everything he did.

Swinging to the bookcase, Whitburn unlocked the metal strip that had been hidden by the

woodwork. The metal slid away. With his free left hand, the old man drew forth a small stack

of papers. Chuckling, he brought his prize into the light. All the time, the man outside was

watching.

Quex was looking toward the door. From his perch on the window sill, the cat noticed the

moving barrier. Slowly, the animal had begun to arch its back. Suddenly, Quex emitted a

fierce spit. Instantly, the door closed.

Professor Whitburn swung about. Holding the papers in his left hand, he leveled his

automatic toward the door. His sharp eyes caught a tremble of the knob. Grimly, the

professor waited. Silence followed; then a slight creak, from far beyond the door. It meant

the departure of an intruder.

Across the study was a fireplace. The glow of a dying flame showed from burned logs.

Stepping across the room, the old man stretched out his left hand and let the papers fall into

the fireplace. The flames caught the dry sheets. Fire crackled as the papers burned.

Satisfied that he had destroyed his documents, Professor Whitburn went back to the

bookcase. He locked the metal slide and closed the molding. He replaced the little key in

the watch and put the timepiece in his pocket.

Footsteps from the corridor. This time, the professor caught the sound of approach. Quex

arched his back. Whitburn chuckled in challenge. Then some one knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" rasped the professor.

"Stephen, sir," came the response from beyond the door.

"Come in," ordered Whitburn.

THE door opened. A stocky, honest-faced man stepped into the room and stared puzzled

as he saw the gun in Whitburn's hand. The professor lowered the weapon. He moved over

by the window sill and began to soothe the tiger-cat.

"Where is Polmore?" inquired the professor, mildly.

"Looking for Bragg, sir," replied Stephen. "He called me from the lab a few minutes ago. He

said you wanted to see me."

"I do. Have you a gun?"

"No, sir."

"Open the lower drawer of the desk. You will find three revolvers. For yourself, Bragg and

Polmore. Have them ready."

"Very well, sir."

Stephen complied. Whitburn motioned for him to retain one gun after he had laid the three

weapons on the desk. Stephen started to pocket a revolver. Whitburn shook his head.

"Have it ready, Stephen," he ordered, in a warning tone. "Danger threatens."

"Here?" questioned Stephen, anxiously. "On Death Island?"

"Yes," returned the professor, solemnly. "But we shall be prepared for it. Four of us,

Stephen."

With this admonition, old Whitburn again turned toward the closed door.

Automatic clutched firmly in his clawlike fist, the aged inventor awaited the arrival of Polmore

and Bragg.

With three henchmen at his bidding, Professor was ready to cope with the prowling enemies

who had entered his abode.

CHAPTER III. TO THE SHADOW

BLINK—blink—blink—

A light was flashing from the cliff at the head of Death Island. The intermittent rays of a

powerful electric torch were sending a coded message to the mainland.

Men were watching it from the darkness of the shore. Crouched near a small dock, they

were picking out the import of the message. An evil laugh sounded in the thickened night.

"Did you read it, Nuland?" came a question.

"Yes, chief," was the growled reply. "I got it."

"Act, then," came the order. "Put the telephone line out of commission. Temporarily—as you

did before. Then summon the men from the cottage. Where is the boat?"

"Fifty yards down the shore, chief. Behind the big rock."

"I shall meet you there. No hurry. We have ample time. Stealth is more important than haste."

"You're right, chief."

Nuland went away through the darkness. After the man's stumbling footsteps had receded,

another laugh sounded by the shore. Its tone had changed. Eric Hildrow was sneering in his

own fashion; not in the manner that he used in the character of Logan Collender.

The master plotter had arrived at the right time. Nuland, head of a crew stationed on the

mainland, had been awaiting this signal from Death Island. Word had come. The crew was

ready.

But Nuland, the lieutenant, was no longer in command. Hildrow, himself, was here to rule the

game.

WHILE Eric Hildrow kept his evil watch on Death Island, Professor Whitburn and Stephen

were still waiting in the study. Polmore had not yet returned; nor had Bragg put in an

appearance.

Whitburn, grim, was gazing steadily toward the door. Stephen's frank face showed anxiety.

Even Quex shared the tenseness. The big cat was restless. The animal had risen on the

window sill and was roaming tigerlike among the papers. When the cat paused and arched

its back, both Whitburn and Stephen noted the fact.

Then came hurried footsteps in the corridor. Some one rapped at the door. Whitburn

ordered the arrival to enter.

It was Polmore. The secretary was out of breath. He stared as he saw the guns that

Whitburn and Stephen were holding. Whitburn put a querulous question.

"Well?" demanded the professor. "Where is Bragg?"

"Gone, sir," returned Polmore. "I looked upstairs for him, after I called Bragg. He was not

there. I went down to the dock. No sign of Bragg. He is gone."

"How do you know that?"

"The little motor boat was missing, sir."

Professor Whitburn bristled. He stared at Stephen, who solemnly shook his head. Then he

turned to Polmore. The secretary was ready with his answer before Whitburn put the

question that was in his mind.

"Bragg said nothing about leaving, sir," declared Polmore. "If he had asked for the night off, I

would have told you."

"That is the rule," declared Whitburn. "No one has the right to leave this island without my

permission."

"I always ask Mr. Polmore," put in Stephen, "and wait until he tells me that I have your

permission, professor. Bragg always did the same -"

"Not to-night," interposed Polmore.

"That is evident," stated Whitburn, testily. "Well, there is one way to call Bragg to task. He

keeps his car at the little garage in Marrinack. I shall call there and find out when he left. Pick

up a revolver, Polmore."

While the secretary was obeying the order, Professor Whitburn thrust his automatic in a

pocket of his smoking jacket. Stepping to the desk, the old man picked up the tilted

telephone. He clicked the hook. The line was dead.

"Out of order," fumed the professor.

Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 071 - The Plot Master

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