The fist was Cranston's; its target, Barcla's chin. The blow crumpled Barcla; as he flattened, stunned, his weasel face took on a look of distorted surprise. Then Lois had replaced him; she was struggling with Cranston. Momentarily, she met blazing eyes from that masklike countenance; then, like Barcla, she was sprawling in the aisle.
Cranston had simply flung the girl aside. He was doing the same with Drury. The pilot's form came tumbling upon Lois, as Cranston twisted into the seat behind the controls. Her head thrust backward under Drury's weight, Lois looked into the pilot's face.
What she saw would have produced another scream, had her lips been able to supply one. Of all the horrors in those swift-moving seconds, that sight of Drury was the worst.
The pilot's face wasn't human. It had a glare that made Barcla's weasel countenance seem benign.
Drury's eyes were wide, goggly things that bulged like balls of glass. His features were frozen in a grotesque expression that would have suited a demon. His lips were partly open, his teeth tight-clenched; between the lips, like a touch of comedy relief, Lois saw the unlighted cigarette the pilot had put there a few moments before.
Then, as the girl clawed wildly, Drury's body rolled away, its grinning face bobbing with a parting leer that Lois understood, too well. Drury was dead; stone-dead. He had died at the controls before Cranston could reach him.
Cranston's purpose had been to take over the ship: Barcla had tried to stop him. To Lois came the sickening thought that she, like a fool, had tried to help the wrong man!
Then, as the girl tried to find her feet, she thumped her head against a seat that had somehow come above her. She could feel the plane's dizzy spin, as she sank into a half-conscious state that promised to mercifully dull her senses before the coming crash.
The plane was diving down, down, down, to a sure destruction; such was Lois' half-dazed thought. But there was something else, as strange as the plane's sudden spin, as weird as that view of Drury's distorted face.
It was a sound that trailed along with Lois into a black and bottomless pit: a tone of sinister laughter, that seemed destined to accompany her into the hereafter.
Mirth that could have come only from one pair of lips; those of Lamont Cranston. Had Lois Melvin ever heard that laugh before, she would have recognized its full significance.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE STARS FORETELL.
To the throng by the community house, sight of the spinning plane was enough to provoke horror. They knew the pilot, Drury, as a man of absolute reliability. Nothing could have induced Drury to stage a stunt act with his plane; yet it seemed equally impossible that the pilot could have lost control just before his landing.
Of the two evils, most viewers accepted the lesser. They thought that Drury must have departed from his custom and decided to give them a thrill. A few actually chuckled while the spinning plane was glinting in the sunlight; then, suddenly, all sounds turned to groans.
It was late afternoon; from the ground, the sun could not be seen beyond the mountain tops. Its spinning dive unchecked, the plane had passed the spot where the sun reached it. A mighty pall of semi-dusk caught it in a swallowing shroud that bespoke immediate destruction.
Then, the miraculous happened. No one remembered the exact details of those thrilling split seconds, that seemed too short for any pilot to use to advantage. They could hear the roar of the motor that accompanied the juggernaut from the sky; they could see the spin widen as the hapless plane neared them.
But the writhe that the ship gave was something beyond description. Its wing produced a flipping illusion; its veer became a swoop. There were persons who swore that they felt the graze of the propeller; others who testified that a canted wing stroked them as they flattened on the ground. Whatever the case, the doomed plane changed its status in a trice.
Its dive turned into the first stage of a pancake landing; in immediate sequence, the ship made a climb. It blotted sight of the community house, toward which it headed; then, one wing lifting to clear the roof, the plane swung full about and rode the surface of the lake with its tilted wing. Rising, it stabilized, found itself, and came to a sensible landing before the awed spectators had really found their breath.
First to reach the plane was a man of rugged build, whose well-matured face marked his age as in the early thirties. He yanked open the door, thrust his square jaw toward the aisle. Then his deep tone was soothing, as his strong arms gathered in a girl who came crawling toward them.
The man was Niles Rundon. Other arrivals stood back as he helped Lois Melvin from the plane. They could see the sympathy in Rundon's eyes, the strained look on his face. They heard Lois sob, and caught the things she said. But the girl's words were incoherent. She was grateful to be alive; that was all.
Near the door lay a groggy man, who was promptly pulled from the plane. People knew him, too, and had expected him as a passenger. But Edward Barcla was too stupefied to remember anything except his aching jaw. He looked around as if he expected to see a mule standing with a ready hoof.
Others were in the plane, calling to the pilot. Some were angry at Drury; others were offering congratulations. All stopped, open-mouthed, when they saw that the pilot wasn't Drury. They drew back, quite puzzled, as a hawk-faced passenger stepped from the plane.
They realized then, that he was the guest expected by Mr. Denwood. They waited while a young man stepped up to shake hands with the arrival. The young man was a likable-looking chap named Harry Vincent, at present one of Denwood's house guests.
Listeners heard Vincent inquire:
'You're Mr. Cranston?'
There was a nod from the hawk-faced passenger who had landed the plane.
'You had better see to the pilot,' remarked Cranston calmly. 'I'm afraid that he is dead.'
AMAZED onlookers brought Drury's body from the ship. They made way for a physician, one of the members of the Calada colony.
The doctor examined the body, gave a solemn nod. He gave orders to call the county coroner. After people moved away, the physician studied Drury's face, then muttered something very softly.
The case looked like murder, but the doctor wasn't entirely sure. He hadn't seen the cigarette that dropped from Drury's lips when people dragged the body from the plane.
It happened that Lois was mentioning the cigarette to persons at the community house.
'Drury couldn't have expected the heart attack,' the girl was saying. 'Why, he had thrust a cigarette between his lips one moment: then, when I looked again, he had sagged at the controls.'
'I didn't realize what had happened.' Her tone was rueful, as she turned to Cranston. 'When I saw you grabbing Drury, I thought he was still alive. But he couldn't have been! The plane had already started its spin.'
Lois' sincere tone brought an understanding smile from Cranston. Another man arose from a chair and came forward a bit unsteadily, his hand extended. The man was Edward Barcla.
'I'm sorry, Mr. Cranston,' said Barcla. 'I made the same mistake that Miss Melvin did. That's why I barged in the way I did. The punch you gave me hurt'-he was rubbing his jaw, as he gave a rueful grin-'but it was a lot better than the wallop we would have taken if you hadn't socked me.'
As the two men shook hands, Lois felt some sympathy for Barcla. The fellow's face looked pale, rather than pasty: his tone, though probably forced, was somewhat gentlemanly.
But as she watched Barcla leave the community house, Lois experienced a renewal of her former mistrust. She turned to Rundon, who was standing beside her, and spoke in a whisper.
'I don't like that chap Barcla,' she said. 'Maybe its silly of me, Niles, but I was watching him in the plane-'
Rundon gave a quick whisper for silence. Another man had entered the community house. He was tall, imposing in appearance, and clad in a suit of white linen. Topping the summer garb was a bearded face, dark, like the deep eyes that peered from it. Instead of an ordinary hat, the bearded man wore a white turban, glittering with a large ruby.
The arrival was Professor Scorpio, the mystic who rated as one of the founders of the Calada colony. He had arrived in his motorboat, just after the plane landed.
Professor Scorpio faced Lois Melvin.
'I warned you,' spoke Scorpio, in a sepulchral tone that seemed muffled by his thick black beard. 'My horoscope told you that it would be unwise to travel on this date.'
