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.
