The Plot Master s-71

  The Plot Master

  ( Shadow - 71 )

  Maxwell Grant

  The Shadow follows a trail of espionage that begins on Death Island and leads to the inner chambers of Washington D.C. to confront "The Plot Master."

  THE PLOT MASTER

  Maxwell Grant

  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. Wha
t 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<
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  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."