The smoking room, Clyde had noted, was the natural meeting place where any plotters would seek one another. The very conspicuousness of the spot made it most desirable.
Secret cabals on decks or in cabins might create suspicion. Concealed communications in the smoking room would pass unnoticed. That had proven true tonight, as Clyde had learned when he had heard the coded clicking of the poker chips.
At present, the ship was more than a hundred miles from shore. Its course would bring it close to the coast before dawn. Clyde, in his quiet conversations with ship’s officers, had learned that the Patagonia was close to its expected position.
The danger zone had not yet been reached. Tonight, it was Clyde’s duty to give The Shadow radio information if trouble was developing. So far, Clyde had sent no messages.
The Shadow was allowing for the ninety-nine possibilities, even though he saw much likelihood of the hundredth chance. Hence, Clyde, in his instructions, had been told to send no message should nothing develop.
As a passenger, Clyde Burke was too smooth a worker to come under the suspicion of any criminals who might be contemplating concerted action. Hence, he had been reserved in every manner of his conduct. At present, Clyde was debating whether or not to wait an hour longer before sending word to The Shadow.
Well did Clyde Burke know the swiftness and certainty with which The Shadow could act. He sensed that The Shadow knew that trouble would not develop until the Patagonia had neared shore. The comparatively slow progress of the ship would enable The Shadow to intercept it by swift boat or by plane, before it came into that zone where danger might well be lying.
Strolling from his cabin, Clyde was relieved to note that the corridor was still empty. He congratulated himself on the fact that though he knew little of the enemy’s plans, his own observations were entirely unsuspected.
At the smoking room, Clyde lingered long enough to study the poker player who had indulged in the chip-clicking. He also noted other men lounging about, and felt sure that some of them were deserving of suspicion.
Half an hour passed. With no results occurring, Clyde left the smoking room.
Had he lingered a few minutes more, he would have seen the clicking chips once more in action. Their signal caused one man to saunter from the smoking room.
Unfortunately, however, Clyde Burke had not waited quite long enough. Paradoxically, he had waited too long — as events of the next ten minutes quickly proved.
CLYDE’S destination was the radio room. Reaching that spot, the newspaperman drew a radiogram from his pocket and gave it to the operator. It was a simple message — one which Clyde had kept in readiness for this moment. The radiogram was addressed to Rutledge Mann, in the Badger Building, New York. It read:
ARRANGE SECURITY PURCHASES AS ADVISED
The message was signed by Clyde Burke.
Ostensibly, it was information concerning investments which Clyde was sending to his broker. Actually, it was an urgent report from one of The Shadow’s agents to another.
Rutledge Mann, a placid, quiet-faced investment broker, was the contact man who received direct communications from The Shadow’s operatives.
The radio operator read the message and nodded. He assured Clyde that it would be sent within the next fifteen minutes. Clyde left the wireless room and went below. The operator prepared to send the message.
With ear phones to his head, and hand on key, the operator did not notice that another man had entered the room. This individual — a short, sallow-faced fellow — was the man who had left the smoking room after Clyde Burke had gone.
He approached the wireless operator and tapped his shoulder. The man at the key turned suddenly. Recognizing his visitor, he removed the ear phones from his head.
“What’s up, Pete?” he questioned, in a low voice.
“All set,” responded the swarthy man. “Stick with us from now on, boy. Nothing goes out that might be a tip-off. What you got there?”
The operator handed him Clyde’s message. The swarthy man read it and handed it back.
“It looks O.K.,” he said. “But just the same—”
“I’d better send it,” declared the operator. “There might be a squawk.”
“All right” — the swarthy man paused suddenly, then shook his head — “I guess it isn’t best to chance it. Nothing to this, but the chief has passed me the word. When he says what to do, he means it. He tipped me to come up here and pass you the word. This message will be lost in the rush.”
The radio operator took the written sheet. He glanced at it reluctantly. Then, as he noted the decided expression on his companion’s face, he shrugged his shoulders.
“All right, Pete,” he said.
Crumpling the paper between his hands, the operator tossed it in a wastebasket beneath the table. He put his ear phones on his head and rested his hand on the key. Pete thumped him on the back, swung on his heel, and went from the room.
It was several minutes later when the swarthy man reappeared in the smoking room. He took a seat as soon as he entered. Clyde Burke was sitting not far away. He noted the quick glance that passed from the chip-clicking poker player to the new arrival.
Clyde Burke smiled to himself. Trouble was brewing to a certainty. Duty lay ahead tonight. Here, on this ship, he must learn all that he could to aid The Shadow.
As to the outcome of whatever might transpire, Clyde had no doubts. That lay in the hands of The Shadow. Through Rutledge Mann, stationed in his office this evening, The Shadow would receive the word which he awaited.
So Clyde Burke reasoned. He did not know that fate had worked against him tonight; that his message to New York would not be delivered. Men of crime were preparing for a master stroke — and Clyde Burke’s carefully planned warning had failed to go.
Steaming onward, the Patagonia plowed through the silent sea, nearing a spot where strange events were scheduled to take place — without interference from the one person who had divined that crime was brewing!
Thorough though he was, Clyde Burke had slipped tonight. Experienced though he was in The Shadow’s service, Clyde lacked the intuition that was needed tonight.
Even while he smiled to think of the unexpected surprise that would encounter the crooks aboard this ship, his own plan had gone awry, leaving the field clear for crime!
CHAPTER II
THE ROBBERY
GRAY streaks of dawn were bringing a feeble glow to the horizon beyond the stern of the Patagonia. The plodding ship formed a dim bulk in the center of a placid sea — a moving object of blackness marked with separated spots of twinkling lights that glowed through portholes.
The size of the ship and the presence of those lights rendered the Patagonia visible to eyes that were watching more than a mile away; yet the watchers, themselves, were unseen by any eyes aboard the liner. A low, sleek-lined motor boat, its decks awash, and its smooth engines muffled, was keeping pace with the transatlantic ship.
The mystery boat had crept up under cover of darkness. As obscure as a derelict in the sea, it had followed the Patagonia for twenty miles, using those glimmering lights as a moving beacon.
Still, the placidity of the scene had not altered. But with daylight approaching, the lowlying boat would soon become visible.
The masts and superstructure of the Patagonia were now forming blackened silhouettes against the lightened sky. Suddenly, a change took place in the appearance of the liner; and with that alteration, the pursuing motor boat veered quickly and pointed its sharp nose toward the Patagonia.
A peculiar jet of white appeared near the stern of the liner; thin filmy puffs became clouds of smoke. Within a few seconds, the rear of the steamship was enveloped in thick white vapor that issued through portholes and from cabinways.