Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 175 - Smugglers of Death

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SMUGGLERS OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DOOM'S LIMIT
? CHAPTER II. THE HAND FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. DEATH RIDES AHEAD
? CHAPTER IV. DARKENED WATERS
? CHAPTER V. MEN FROM THE DEEP
? CHAPTER VI. EVENTS ASHORE.
? CHAPTER VII. MARINER'S ISLE
? CHAPTER VIII. SMUGGLERS MEET
? CHAPTER IX. TRAILS CROSS
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S RETURN
? CHAPTER XI. THE LAW'S REPORT
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME FORESEEN
? CHAPTER XIII. THE UNSEEN SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. THE HIDDEN WAY
? CHAPTER XV. DOUBLE TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVI. WAY OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVII. CROOKS DIVIDED
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEEDED LINK
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW'S ORDER
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S MASTER
CHAPTER I. DOOM'S LIMIT
THERE was menace in the quiet along Manhattan's water front. The foggy, brine-laden air seemed
stirring with whispers that crept amid the darkness, though the words remained unheard. It would have
taken a person long accustomed to that district to sense that trouble was afoot; nevertheless, the subtle
signs were present.
Furtive shamblers veered from gloomy spots near deserted piers that rose, ominous and formidable, into
the haze-thickened darkness. Others, nervous without knowing why, were lured by the smudgy lights of
Ricky's Café, the only place that showed a glow in that entire block. A night like this invariably made
passers form a taste for fish and chips, the specialty served at Ricky's. Customers were there in plenty.
Even the occupants of a random touring car were influenced by that urge. Parked near a corner, they
held brief conference while sneaky figures approached, lingered a few seconds, and sidled away again.
The visits of those prowlers had its effect upon the men in the car. Four in number, they stepped to the
sidewalk and into Ricky's.
With their entry, it was obvious that one man was the leader. He stepped ahead of his companions,
letting them shift to tables of their own. Chunky, broad-shouldered, the man swaggered through the
eating place, turning his beefy face toward different groups. To some, he gave a curt nod of greeting; to
others, a contemptuous stare which worried them.
Only a few strangers were puzzled by the scene. The regular patrons all knew Spike Hegley and what he
represented.
Ruler along this sector, Spike boasted a horde of tough followers. When trouble started along the water
front, Spike and his mob were always in the thick of it, except when paid to stay out: on which
occasions, Spike made it a rule to collect from both warring factions.
Spike's appearance in Ricky's Café placed a new interpretation on the recent scene outside. The
menacing stir that existed along the river tonight could be blamed upon one person only:
Spike Hegley.
PASSING through the main room of the café, Spike entered a doorway at the rear. He stepped into a
barren room, where chairs and tables were stacked along the wall. This room was always dark, except
when dock wallopers used it for conferences. But in the far corner it had what Spike wanted: a telephone
booth.
A light came on as soon as Spike had closed the booth door. Fumbling through his pockets, the chunky
man brought out a crumpled piece of paper on which was written a telephone number. Studying his
watch, Spike decided to wait a few minutes before making his call.
By this time, Spike had forgotten the patrons in the outer room. So, for that matter, had the three huskies
who were ordering fish and chips. They had given the place the "once over;" and were satisfied. No one
in the café had perturbed them; least of all a tall, ill-dressed patron who was slouched behind a table near
the rear doorway.
He looked like some sweatered roustabout who had come into the place to sober up, only to collapse in
the attempt. His head was buried in his arms his feet had overturned an old satchel that probably
contained what little dunnage he had brought with him from his ship.
The slouched customer, however, had certain points that would have interested Spike's hoodlums, had
they noticed him more closely. His face, despite its smudginess, had a strange, hawklike expression. His
eyes, as they peered front above the sweater sleeve, showed a burning gaze that held the unobservant
mobbies under close scrutiny.
With one hand, the hawk-visaged watcher drew black garments from his satchel. He let a slouch hat rest
in his lap, while he slid a cloak half across his shoulders.
His next move looked like a slow slump, in which he sagged below the table edge. His other hand was
busy; he melted into the blackness of the cloak, and clamped the hat upon his head. From his angle, the
table was between Spike's doorway and the three followers of the mob leader. By keeping low, the
black-cloaked individual had no trouble easing through the door.
Once he had worked that barrier shut behind him, he stood upright in the darkness. He had become a
shadowy being, invisible in this setting. Even the burn of his piercing eyes was lost beneath the
down-turned brim of his slouch hat. In appearance, as well as deed, the supposed roustabout had
become a personage that all crooks dreaded.
The Shadow!
In the telephone booth, Spike Hegley was dialing a number. He wasn't conscious that eyes had come
close enough to watch him. Through the glass panel of the phone-booth door, The Shadow made mental
note of each hole that Spike chose when he dialed.
Spike's pudgy lips formed a leer, when he recognized the voice that answered. Then The Shadow was
catching the low-rasped words that made up Spike's end of the conversation.
"Yeah... " Spike's tone spoke triumph. "I planted 'em, six of 'em, on board the Flyaway... Yeah. I said
six, chief. They'll be enough on that cruiser. Each guy that we've got can match two that are workin' for
Mike Waybrock."
Names linked together in The Shadow's mind. The Flyaway-Mike Waybrock. Curious associations, that
formed a nucleus for more. The Flyaway was one of the speediest cabin cruisers that plied Long Island
Sound. A miniature yacht, she had recently been sold, due to the death of her millionaire owner. Until
tonight, The Shadow had not considered the question of the cruiser's purchaser. He was learning that the
speedy boat now belonged to Mike Waybrock.
They didn't call Waybrock by the nickname Mike in the circles where he spent most of his time. He was
Michael Waybrock, gentleman adventurer, who boasted an enchanting past that thrilled the society girls
who listened to his story. For Waybrock was ingenious enough to cover over certain unsavory details of
his career.
Michael Waybrock, new owner of the Flyaway; using the ship for some crooked game. A game that had
produced the envy of some big-shot on the other end of the telephone wire; a big-shot who had hired
Spike Hegley to put a fixed crew on board the cruiser.
The Shadow dropped his findings at that point, for Spike, was beginning to talk again.
"THE mob ain't wise, chief." Spike was positive in his assurance. "There's no way they could figure you
as the guy that's runnin' the racket... Yeah. I told 'em Frenchy Brenn was in back of it, and that made
sense. What's more, they know Frenchy is on the Albania, the same as Waybrock. That clinched it..."
Frenchy Brenn-another name familiar to The Shadow. As suave as he was dangerous, Frenchy had a
reputation as an international crook. Smuggling wasn't ordinarily in his line, for he was too well known;
but the thing was taking on an unusual twist.
Some hidden brain was behind the smuggling racket, a game that had grown to real proportions in the
past few months. Enough to encourage lone wolves like Michael Waybrock, bringing them into the field
on their own. Which was something that no mastermind would stomach.
The big-shot was gunning for Waybrock, using Frenchy for the job. Aboard the liner Albania, due in
New York tomorrow, Frenchy was probably keeping an eye on his fellow-passenger, Waybrock. The
rumbles from Manhattan's water front were due to reach that in-coming ship, for the hidden big-shot had
drawn Spike Hegley into the game; yet, all the while, he was having Frenchy pose as the "front," for the
benefit of lesser crooks whose services he needed!
From that discovery, The Shadow formed an immediate plan. He intended to learn, by the most direct
means possible, just who was on the other end of the wire talking to Spike Hegley.
An automatic drawn, The Shadow eased open the edge of the booth door, ready to plant an icy muzzle
upon Spike's neck the moment that the mob leader finished his call. Spike would talk-as crooks of his
sort always did-when confronted by The Shadow.
A blotch of blackness streaked the green wall of the booth, above the telephone. It formed a hawkish
silhouette, an advance token of The Shadow. An instant later, that streak had faded. The Shadow had
drawn back because of new words spoken by Spike:
"Listen, chief. I gotta check on the mob... Yeah, it won't take long...I'll call you again...How soon? Inside
of ten minutes, if that's 0.K. with you..."
Apparently it was 0. K., for Spike immediately hung up the receiver and came from the phone booth.
The Shadow did not stop him. Circumstances had offered a more effective plan. Given five minutes, The
Shadow would be talking to the big-shot in person!
Spike's forced rasp could be easily imitated: and The Shadow had learned enough of the situation to
carry through the pretense. He waited until Spike had passed through the door to the café; then glided
into the phone booth.
The Shadow's first move was to loosen the electric-light bulb at the top of the booth. That done, he
closed the door without producing a glow. In absolute darkness, his deft fingers found the dial and made
a test.
After a few minutes, he dropped a nickel into the coin slot. The dial tone hummed briefly; then The
Shadow's fingers were at work, probing the dial itself, literally plucking out the same number that Spike
had called.
Five minutes were gone, according to The Shadow's accurate estimate. The big-shot wouldn't be
surprised by so early a call from Spike, for the latter had specified within ten minutes.
Unfortunately, the call was not going through. The Shadow could hear the steady ringing of the bell; but
no one answered. To another, that ringing might have signified a mistake in the calling of the number; but
not to The Shadow. He recognized the truth; the man at the other end had gone.
The call wasn't being answered; and that gave The Shadow an answer of another sort, one that brought a
sudden end to his well-formed schemes. He now realized that Spike Hegley must have guessed that his
conversation had been overheard.
That chatter to the big-shot had been a tip-off, together with a stall for time, in which Spike intended to
do more than check on his mob. He had gone out to summon them!
The Shadow, intent upon balking schemes of crime, had placed himself in the center of a trap, with
doom's limit only a few minutes away!
CHAPTER II. THE HAND FROM THE DARK
CALMLY, The Shadow eased the door of the phone booth open, to listen for approaching sounds. He
heard them from three places. There were creaks beyond the door to the outer café, indicating that
hoodlums were posting themselves at that outlet; but The Shadow knew that the first attack would not
come from that direction.
True to form, Spike's sluggers would make it look as if they had become embroiled despite their will.
Whenever any of them started things on their own, they did it with the utmost secrecy. For that reason,
The Shadow regarded other sounds as more important for the moment.
Muffled rips were audible from a rear door that led into an alley. Men were working there with jimmies,
trying to make as little noise as possible. From another quarter of the room, The Shadow could hear
scratches which told that thugs were trying to open a window. Spike's plan obviously, was to supply two
thrusts from opposite directions.
Closing the door of the phone booth, The Shadow indulged in a whispered laugh, audible only in his
confined haven. He was summing matters as they stood.
Spike Hegley unquestionably knew that he had been seen by The Shadow. The mob leader had caught
that from a single clue: the chance appearance of the blackened silhouette when it glided across the
interior of the phone booth.
Quickly reaching a decision, The Shadow called a number and spoke in a brisk, important tone. His
voice was a perfect imitation of the well-known tone of Ralph Weston, New York's police
commissioner. Talking to headquarters. The Shadow had his call put through immediately to the office of
Joe Cardona, Manhattan's ace police inspector.
Then came The Shadow's own inimitable whisper, with Inspector Cardona an eager listener. This was a
real tip-off-a chance to bag Spike Hegley and his mob in a battle of their own making, at Ricky's Café.
That message given, The Shadow ended the call abruptly.
Peeling off his cloak and hat, he draped them across the front of the telephone. Opening the booth door,
he screwed the light bulb into place. Darkness continued, for the light would not work while the booth
door was open.
During those moments, The Shadow heard the sudden crack of the rear door; also a final clatter that told
the window was being raised. Dropping flat upon the floor, a gun in each fist, he thrust a foot toward the
phone booth. With a deft toe, The Shadow pressed the door shut.
Things happened with kaleidoscopic speed. First came the light in the booth, revealing the dummy figure.
Next, the wild shouts of converging crooks as they saw the blackened shape. Halting short, they opened
a volley with their guns; a deluge of bullets raked the phone booth.
The door was riddled, its glass front shattered. Slugs smacked the metal coin box with dull, quivering
clangs. Hat and cloak withered downward, while crooks raised an exultant shout, only to end their cry
with snarls when they realized that the garments were empty.
They were ready, then, to look for The Shadow; but he was no longer at hand. They hadn't seen him on
the floor; and in the roar of gunfire, he had been making unobstructed speed straight for the door that led
into the café proper.
Coming to his feet, he yanked that door open, while disappointed sharpshooters were still gawking at the
telephone booth.
FLINGING himself through the doorway, The Shadow came upon half a dozen hoodlums who were
seated in pairs at rear tables. Fake patrons that Spike had ordered into Ricky's, these thugs formed the
crew that was to block The Shadow's outlet.
They had guns ready in their pockets, but they weren't prepared for The Shadow's sudden arrival. Spike
had told them to wait until they heard shots answer the first volley in the rear room. The mob leader had
actually believed that the opening barrage might settle The Shadow, in which case, the front crew would
not have to show its hand.
The Shadow's surge ended that prospect. It caught the waiting crooks flat-footed. If The Shadow had
been cloaked in black, the startled toughs would have dived for cover without offering a single shot. But
The Shadow had sacrificed his impressive garb to create the ruse in the telephone booth. Six crooks saw
him, not as The Shadow, but as a sweatered thug no more deadly than themselves.
Relying on numbers, they sprang to battle, drawing their guns as they came. A fierce laugh came from
The Shadow's lips, a shivering peal of mirth that told his true identity; but the taunt was too long delayed.
Battle was already under way, with The Shadow as its center.
The very measure upon which Spike depended, proved disastrous to his sluggers. He had told them to
pile into any fray that came, which was exactly what The Shadow expected. Revolving in the middle of
that gun-pulling throng, The Shadow flayed the crooks with strokes from his big automatics.
Milling fighters sprawled. Those who finally managed to aim were met with point-blank shots before they
could tug their triggers. To startled witnesses peering from beneath tables, it seemed that one sweatered
fighter had shaken off a flood of attackers by the mere process of a rapid whirl that ended with short
stabs from his guns.
Had any crook held back, he would have gotten a chance to drop The Shadow; but Spike had assigned
no one to such duty. Alone, amid a scattered group of floored opponents, The Shadow was wheeling
away from the doorway to the rear room. He was gone when shots began to blast from that direction.
Gunmen surged through, hoping to clip a fleeing fighter before he could reach the street door. There
again, Spike's mobbies failed to guess The Shadow's strategy. He had swung to the wall beside the
doorway; he drove in upon the gunners as they poured through. Again there was a thud of hard-swung
guns; stabs of flame from big muzzles. From a fresh cluster of crumpling crooks, The Shadow was gone
again, back into the darkened rear room.
Bullets had extinguished the light in the phone booth. Pausing there, The Shadow snatched up his cloak
and hat.
Flashlights were glimmering in the alleyway behind the café. There were other lights, outside the window
of the rear room. Spike's reserves had every exit covered, and they kept peppering the room that The
Shadow had chosen as his stronghold. Answering shots, in slow fire, kept back any attack; but it was
obvious that The Shadow was conserving ammunition.
Such tactics couldn't last much longer. Posted in the rear alley now, Spike was waiting for the right
moment to begin a general charge, when the whine of sirens swelled through the fog. The police were
here, many minutes before they had a right to be!
Before Spike could gather his startled wits, The Shadow, too, had heard the sign of the law's approach.
He began a rapid fire, straight through the doorway to the alleyway. Raked by that barrage, crooks
scattered, Spike among them.
Police were everywhere about the water front café, rounding up the running crooks who had forgotten
their feud with The Shadow, in order to make their own escape. Only Spike, halting as he reached the
next street, still had the cloaked fighter in mind. With a snarl for others to rally around him, Spike flicked
a flashlight back into the alley.
The glow was smothered by the sleeve of a black cloak. A gun muzzle pressed Spike's temple; his ear
heard a sinister whisper. Deserted by his fleeing mob, Spike had been overtaken by The Shadow, whose
ominous voice was telling him to talk.
Cowering, Spike licked his pudgy lips. He was trying to gather breath. His gasp was wheezy; then he
was coughing words that The Shadow had heard before. Words about the Flyaway, Mike Waybrock,
Frenchy Brenn. Then:
"They're on the Albania," whined Spike. "Mike and Frenchy, both of 'em."
"And the big-shot," interposed The Shadow, "is here in New York. State his name."
AS if timed to The Shadow's demand, the glare of headlights suddenly bored upon that scene. The
brilliance came from a car swinging in from a corner less than thirty feet away. It showed the cowering
shape of Spike; above it, the black-clad figure of The Shadow. Then, in a flash, only one form was in the
glow. The Shadow had dived into darkness, with a sharp order for Spike to do the same.
Too startled to respond, Spike remained. A gun spoke from the approaching car, delivering a staccato of
repeated shots as the motor gave a sudden rumble. From cover, The Shadow saw Spike coiling to the
ground; caught a glimpse of a sleek coupé, as it shot past the mouth of the alley.
The car lights blinked off. By the time The Shadow had reached the crumpled form of Spike, the coupé
was wheeling the next corner. The Shadow's only shot did nothing more than nick a fender above a
license plate that he had no chance to read.
A tiny flashlight in The Shadow's fist revealed the face of Spike Hegley. Bloated lips were fixed upon a
name they could not utter. The Shadow's question had been answered, not by Spike, but by the big-shot
whose name the mob leader had tried to give.
An answer by deed; not by word. A hand from the dark had settled the matter, leaving the identity of the
master crook still unrevealed. Spike Hegley, the man who could have talked, had been snatched from
The Shadow's grasp by a swift delivery of death!
Whistles sounded from the alley. The motionless pose of The Shadow ended; his figure made a sudden
fade into darkness. When Inspector Joe Cardona, stocky and grim-visaged, arrived at the alley's end, he
found only the huddled body of Spike Hegley.
The Shadow, one trail lost, had departed upon another; but his quest remained the same. Other lips
besides those of Spike Hegley could reveal the name of the hidden crime master.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER III. DEATH RIDES AHEAD
IN departing from the water front battle, The Shadow had left it for granted that the police would soon
round up the remnants of Spike's mob. Instead, the law became involved in a campaign that threatened
to hold over until dawn.
For the few of Spike's mob who escaped the police did not know Spike was dead, but thought him in
the hands of the law. Such was their fury, that they enlisted all the crooks along the water front to battle
the law.
An hour after The Shadow's departure, two hundred police reserves were on the scene, dealing with the
trouble-makers.
War along the water front! That news was important enough to cause certain broadcasting stations to
drop their usual programs and furnish listeners with graphic accounts of the battle. Nowhere did the radio
reports create more apprehension than on board inbound ocean liners that were soon due in New York.
Passengers on one ship, the Albania, forgot their final celebration to cluster in the lounge and discuss
events on shore. When midnight brought word that the police had conquered the Manhattan water front,
the little groups of chatterers began to break up.
The last person to leave one corner table was a girl of unusual charm. She was a blonde, tall and slender,
with blue eyes and the poise of a danseuse. Every move that she made was graceful, even to the way her
long fingers inserted a cigarette in a thin holder and then flicked the lighter that formed the top of her
platinum cigarette case.
Her age was perhaps twenty; though it would have been difficult to estimate her exact years.
At this moment, the blonde was noting a well-groomed man who had stepped from a little booth
equipped with a card table, where he had been playing solitaire. Odd, she thought, that he had been
alone with a pack of cards, for his handsome countenance had all the requisites of a perfect poker face.
He'd noticed her before, this chap who had a way of trying to look younger than he was: but this was the
first time that he had attempted to introduce himself. Odd, again, that he should seek an acquaintance on
the last night of the voyage.
The blonde met that situation by turning with a sudden smile that left the bland man baffled for a moment.
His face showed a peculiar flicker, that shifted into a sophisticated smile. Bowing, he asked suavely:
"You are Miss Myrna Elvin?"
The girl nodded. The man suggested that they sit down at the card table, to which Myrna agreed. Then,
after a cautious glance from the booth, a detail which aroused the girl's keen interest, the man introduced
himself.
"I am Michael Waybrock." he said. "Perhaps you have heard of me."
"I have," replied Myrna, her blue eyes meeting blackish ones. "Though I never met you before. I seem to
recall your name as a hold-over from my debutante days."
Waybrock smiled, as though highly complimented.
"In case you don't know it," he remarked. "it is my honor to have you as a neighbor, Miss Elvin,"
A neighbor?"
"Yes. You have a summer cottage in Connecticut, on the shore of Long Island Sound. Just opposite
it"-Waybrock's eyes took on a faraway stare-" is an island called Mariner's Isle-"
WAYBROCK paused. Myrna's eyes were wide as he expected they would be. She, like everyone else
along that Connecticut shore, had long wondered who owned that isolated island which had long been a
spot of mystery.
"I own Mariner's Isle," resumed Waybrock, calmly. "I am going there soon after I reach New York. You
will also be going to Connecticut, I presume."
Myrna nodded.
Good!" declared Waybrock, settling back in his chair. "I can depend upon you to perform a neighborly
favor. In my stateroom, I have a package"-he was leaning forward, lowering his tone-"which I cannot
take ashore. I would like you to do so for me. After you have reached Connecticut. I can call for it."
"Smuggled goods. I suppose," mused Myrna, aloud. "Probably jewels. Sorry. Mr. Waybrock. I can't
help you."
Waybrock became very earnest.
"I wouldn't ask the favor," he declared, "if it were not a matter upon which my life depends. I am serious
about it, Miss Elvin. Unless you aid me, my death may result!"
Waybrock obviously meant exactly what he said. Myrna's gaze became troubled.
"Tonight," the man proceeded, his voice almost a whisper, "I have been listening to those reports of
trouble along the New York water front. I learned also-something which you may not know-that
arrangements have just been made for an autogiro to land on this steamship in what is termed a
shore-to-sea test.
"On board the Albania are certain desperate criminals; persons that I recognized this very afternoon. Add
all those facts together, Miss Elvin, and they mean trouble for someone."
He sat back again, lighted a cigarette, with a stare that was almost plaintive. Myrna was impressed; her
voice seemed hardly her own, as she asked:
"Trouble for Michael Waybrock?"
The man nodded, nervously puffing his cigarette, he arose, gave another of his furtive glances about the
almost-deserted lounge. Then, abruptly:
"I am going to my stateroom," he said. "I shall call at your cabin in fifteen minutes-with the box."
THREE of those fifteen minutes were gone before Myrna roused herself. Waybrock's personality had
been dynamic.
Myrna's thought had drifted. She was picturing Mariner's Isle, a wooded clump that seemed to float like
an ancient frigate off the Connecticut shore. A house lay lost among those trees; a house that she had
never seen. A place which well might be a modern smuggler's lair, where she would be welcome as a
visitor if she sided with Waybrock in his present dilemma.
Then that imaginary scene was gone. Myrna realized that she was still aboard the Albania, with five
minutes of the quarter hour gone. What a fool she had been to believe that yarn of Waybrock's! If she
didn't get out of this silly mess right away, she would be in it too deep to amend the situation.
With sudden resolve, Myrna went from the lounge. As she passed a little booth just in back of the one
where she had talked with Waybrock, she glimpsed there a woman who looked vaguely familiar.
Carrying an impression of jet-black hair, olive-hued face and reddened fingernails, Myrna suddenly
remembered the woman's name as Leona Dubray.
But Myrna was in too much of a hurry to connect the Dubray woman with Michael Waybrock.
Going down in the elevator. Myrna settled her mind with the conviction that Waybrock had lied about
everything except the matter of the box. It was probably real enough, that box she suspected to hold
smuggled jewels, that Waybrock was afraid to take ashore. He would find out, soon enough, that Myrna
was no dupe, for such a game.
Myrna had reached her cabin door. She looked back along the passage and thought, for one startling
moment, that she saw someone peering from the turn near the elevators. Perhaps it was the gloom that
made her think of dark-haired Leona Dubray. Then the illusion had passed. There was no one in the
passage.
Myrna unlocked her door, stepped into the cabin, pleased by the fact that she still had more than five
minutes in which to block Waybrock's visit.
Seated at a little writing desk, with nothing to disturb her other than the incessant thrumm of the liner's
engines. Myrna penned a brief note to Waybrock. In as few words as possible, she stated that she did
not care to see him; that a visit to her cabin would be useless.
Sealing the note, Myrna rang for a steward. The steward could find out where Waybrock's stateroom
was and deliver the message for her. She wouldn't be troubled by Waybrock any longer, because he
would be glad enough to learn that she did not intend to inform the customs officials that he was a
smuggler, a fact that she had intimated in the note.
MYRNA paused for a moment, the envelope half addressed. She was disturbed by a louder hum than
that of the ship's engines; a purr that faded curiously as she listened. It must be the autogiro that
Waybrock had mentioned.
The aircraft was landing on the deck of the Albania
Did the fact add weight to Waybrock's story?
Myrna decided finally that it did not. Probably Waybrock had heard that the giro was coming and had
simply woven that thread of truth into the fabric of his false story. Myrna finished addressing the envelope
just as a sharp knock came from the door.
That knock meant the steward, bringing an end to her problem. So Myrna thought, until she started to
open the door. Of its own accord, the barrier swung inward before she could shift her weight to stop it.
With a startled gasp, Myrna saw a man's figure lunging in upon her; she sprang away as she recognized
the face of Michael Waybrock.
Then, before she could thrust the note into Waybrock's hand and spring past him, his lunge had become
a sprawl. It was a crazy fall, an actual collapse, that made him seem disjointed when he struck the floor.
One shoulder heaved, as if impelled by a hidden spring, and the jolt turned the man's face upward.
Myrna's next gasp would have been a scream, had she found voice to go with it. She was staring at a
different Michael Waybrock than the one who had talked with her in the lounge. The handsomeness had
gone from his face, along with his suave smile.
Instead of the latter, he wore a hideous grin, that was accentuated by the bulge of grotesque eyes, white
orbs surrounding tiny beads of black. Below that horrible face was a bloodstained shirt front; from the
center of the crimson blob a knife handle projected, silent proof that a blade was deep in the victim's
heart,
Michael Waybrock had come to Myrna's cabin, in keeping with his promise. He had come, not as a
living man, but as a corpse. And the leer that showed his glistening white teeth seemed fixed there, to
chide Myrna Elvin because she had doubted his story of impending doom!
CHAPTER IV. DARKENED WATERS
IT was fortunate for Myrna that she had managed to repress a scream at sight of Waybrock's body.
From a side passage, cater-cornered to her cabin door, two watchers were noting everything she did.
One of those watchers was Leona Dubray. Her companion, a wiry man with sallow face and
gray-streaked mustache, was the notorious crook who had been the cause of Waybrock's fears-
Frenchy Brenn.
"We'll wait," Frenchy was saying in an undertone, "until we find out how much the dame knows. If she
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SMUGGLERSOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DOOM'SLIMIT?CHAPTERII.THEHANDFROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.DEATHRIDESAHEAD?CHAPTERIV.DARKENEDWATERS?CHAPTERV.MENFROMTHEDEEP?CHAPTERVI.EVENTSASHORE.?CHAPTERVII.MARINER'SISLE?CHAPTERVIII.SMUGGLERSMEET?CHAPTERI...

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