"We should see Dorn at once," insisted Brendle. "It means a lot to both of us, Yvonne. If he really intends to finance the rice lands, he might pay more than fifty thousand dollars -"

"Or less," put in Talborn. "But don't worry, Brendle. Whatever comes from the property will go toward paying the money that Carland owed you."

"I'm sorry," apologized Brendle. "I only thought -"

"We know what you thought," interposed Talborn. "Carland stuck you with those swamp acres, Brendle, and you want Yvonne to help you get rid of them."

"An outrageous accusation, Talborn."

Andy arose, to come between the pair. As he urged Brendle toward the door, Andy supplied a statement that soothed his own feelings as much as Brendle's.

"Don't worry about Talborn," Andy told Brendle. "At least you stand to be a loser because of Carland's death. So Talborn can't put you in the cla.s.s of a suspected murderer, as he did with me."

As he turned back to look at Talborn, Andy noted a surprised expression on the man's face, as though Talborn, for the first time, realized that Andy belonged in the same category as Salter and Hedwin.

Yvonne was rising from her chair; she ignored Talborn as she went through the door. Both Andy and Brendle followed, leaving Talborn to his own accusations.

"We'll go to see Dorn right now," declared Andy as they started down the stairs. "We'll put the proposition to him squarely and see if he wants to buy those rice fields."

It didn't occur to Andy that others might already be on the way to visit Jonathan Dorn; men whose ways were dark and deadly, whose propositions were those of primitive law.

CHAPTER XIII. FIENDS OF THE FLAME.

NIGHT lights and the sounds of evening were puzzling to The Shadow as he stared toward the windows of his hotel room. He could not understand the lights at all, for he expected daylight. He could recall a battle, which he had followed up with an incomplete pursuit. Then he had dragged himself away to rest; and, considering his weariness, he should have slept past dawn.

But it was still night, and, more puzzling still, he was wearing his black cloak, a most serious oversight.

It wasn't good policy for Kent Allard to return to a hotel room in Mexico City, clad in a garb that might create a panic among superst.i.tious employees. It would be understandable, perhaps, if this happened to be New Orleans and The Shadow had a.s.sumed the character of Lamont Cranston, which in itselfpreserved his actual ident.i.ty.

Suddenly the answer broke through. This was New Orleans. Mexico City was a thing of the past, despite the fact that The Shadow had battled Aztecs quite recently. Yes, this was New Orleans; even though the city lights were still confusing, sounds told The Shadow where he was. He could hear the calliope of a river s...o...b..at wheezing out its ceaseless music.

Rolling from the bed, The Shadow moved unsteadily toward a mirror. His cloak dropped from his shoulders, the slouch hat fell from its folds. Finding a light, The Shadow turned it on and looked at his face. He saw the hawkish features of Lamont Cranston, not the gaunt face of Kent Allard.

The Shadow laughed, his low tone mirthless. He was Cranston for the present, but he could not recollect his recent adventures. Pressing his hand against the side of his aching head, The Shadow began to understand.

He had taken a fall during the fight and must have received a brain concussion. He knew the effects from old. Fortunately, the result was wearing off.

Then, as The Shadow turned from the mirror, his head whirled anew. He couldn't be Cranston; he must be Allard, because, facing him, were two stolid Xincas who stood like patient sentinels.

Those Xincas served Kent Allard, not Lamont Cranston. Their very presence caused The Shadow to stare from them to the mirror, doubting his own eyes, until the Xincas spoke.

They were using their own language, which The Shadow understood, telling him of new drumbeats that had penetrated to their remote domain in Guatemala, carrying the tale that the cult of Xitli was again alive.

These two Xincas, The Shadow's own servants, had smuggled themselves to New Orleans, to bring their chief the news.

As the Xincas spoke, The Shadow recalled that he had given them such an order. But he had expected to contact them at another hotel, where he went daily, as Allard. Not having found him there, the Xincas, through ways peculiar to themselves, had managed to trace The Shadow in his guise of Cranston.

The Shadow was thinking clearly, rapidly, by the time those facts had been recounted. He opened the door of the hotel room, found a newspaper in the hall. It wasn't today's newspaper by The Shadow's calculation. It was tomorrow's!

Therewith, The Shadow realized that he had spent a full twenty-four hours in a semiconscious state.

Hours that should have been devoted to further investigation, for the newspaper headlined the mysterious murder of James Carland.

Scanning the columns, The Shadow learned how far the police had missed the truth, for Yvonne's description of the hatchet killers was scarcely mentioned. Turning the pages to read the final paragraphs of the murder story, The Shadow came upon a minor item that most eyes would have missed.

It simply stated that the yacht Miramar was to arrive at Lake Pontchartrain; but the news was weighty to The Shadow. He knew that the Miramar belonged to Jonathan Dorn, with whom Carland had dealings.

Considering the riddle of Carland's death - namely, why he had been slated for murder - The Shadow found a partial answer. The menace which doomed Carland might now apply to Dorn!

Seizing hat and cloak, The Shadow bundled them across his arm. Followed by the Xincas, he went down a stairway, out through an obscure exit from the hotel, to the almost deserted parking lot where he kept his car. A few minutes later, The Shadow and his companions were whizzing northward along Ca.n.a.l Street, the wide, main thoroughfare of New Orleans.

It was better than a tip-off to police headquarters, that pace set by The Shadow. Traffic whistles shrilled as the car roared by, its mad speed forcing other vehicles to the curb. Attracted by the whistles, police cars took up the chase, until it seemed that half the New Orleans force was on The Shadow's trail.

But the cloaked driver outraced them, even slackening at times, to make sure they did not lose his course. The threat that loomed ahead was one wherein The Shadow might need all the aid that he could muster.

ABOARD his yacht, the Miramar, Jonathan Dorn was seated in his cabin, going over letters that he had received from James Carland. Hearing a knock at the door, Dorn covered the correspondence, and testily demanded: "Who's there?"

The door opened and a pale secretary inserted his face. He was hesitant when he saw the glower on Dorn's heavy-jowled features. The secretary was greatly in awe of Dorn; ordinarily, be would have retired at the financier's growl.

"I'm busy, Nevil," boomed Dorn. "Don't you remember my order? I told you not to disturb me until Carland arrives."

"But it's about Mr. Carland -"

"What about Mr. Carland? Have you heard from him? Isn't he coming here this evening?"

"No, sir." For once, Nevil was firm. "I think you'd better read this, Mr. Dorn."

He advanced and placed a newspaper on Dorn's desk. When the financier read the headlines that concerned Carland's death, he broke into a fit of rage, which he directed toward Nevil, who was the only person available.

"Get out!" stormed Dorn. "I'll call you when I need you. What does it matter to me, if Carland is dead?"

He paused, while Nevil darted through the door. Then, almost to himself, Dorn added: "Perhaps it proves - all these."

By "all these," Dorn meant the letters that lay on his desk. He began to handle them again, as if they were priceless doc.u.ments. He was stroking his chin, smiling to himself, half pleased, half doubtful, when the door opened again.

Dorn did not hear it, for his attention was attracted by the sound of sirens that were coming toward the lake front, where the yacht was docked.

The door closed with a click. Dorn turned about angrily, expecting to see Nevil. Instead, his jowlish face froze itself, agape, as his eyes viewed three intruders. They were men with faces as stony as the crude hatchets which they carried; squatly men with sloping foreheads; savages attired in jungle garb.

With a sharp cry, Dorn came to his feet. He was grabbing for the desk drawer where he kept his revolver; with the other hand, he was seizing the precious Carland correspondence. Dorn's fingers did not even grasp the handle of the drawer. The Aztecs had released their hatchets with short, choppy swings.

The stone weapons buried their crude cutting edges deep into Jonathan Dorn. One ax found his skull, another his neck, while the third drove to his heart. As Dorn sprawled, scattering the sheaf of letters, the Aztecs bounded forward in rubbery fashion and tugged their weapons from the victim's body.

Dorn's death, at least, was merciful, for it was very swift. Each of the axes had struck with sufficient force to kill him. But the Aztecs were not yet through. Ignoring the arriving police sirens as things which could not concern them, they produced small, bomb-like objects and flung them against the desk.

These were new weapons, provided by their master, Xitli, and the effect exceeded the expectations of the Aztecs. The objects were actually bombs, of an incendiary type, that broke instantly into gushing flame, which spurted throughout the cabin.

By the time the Aztecs were safely through the door, Dorn's body was the center of a miniature inferno.

Fiery tongues gulped the Carland letters and ignited the desk, threatening to dispose of its contents, also.

Racing for the yacht's deck, the Aztecs encountered Nevil and members of the crew, who had heard the roar and now saw the raging flames that issued from the cabin. The wild chant of the Aztecs, the anthem that marked them as servants of Xitli, did more than drown the cackle of the flames. It brought a horde of other stony men into sight, from lurking spots about the deck.

Nevil and the other unfortunates were diving for shelter that they could not find, with members of the murderous tribe close after them, when a mighty taunt was delivered from the forward deck, rising to a challenging crescendo that made the Aztecs halt.

They had heard that mirth the night before. It signified a lone foeman, the only one in all their experience who had out-dealt them in their game of quick-delivered death.

The laugh of The Shadow brought vengeful howls from the Aztecs. The followers of Xitli remembered those of their tribe that they had carried from the battle of the night before. Nevil and the others were forgotten.

As a barrage preliminary to their attack, the Aztecs flung more of the incendiary bombs. The Shadow wheeled back to cover as the deadly sh.e.l.ls broke and spewed flame everywhere. Leaping for the gaps, the Aztecs were upon him with their axes, but swift though their swings were, the stabs of The Shadow's guns could not be beaten.

Wild savages sprawled, their hatchets flying wide. The Shadow had beaten off the brunt of that attack, but he knew the wily ways of the Aztecs. Other men of Xitli had reached the superstructure of the Miramar, and were poising for long throws. They looked like howling demons amid the flames which they had produced - great sheets of fire that now enveloped the yacht.

The Shadow's only refuge was the bow of the boat. He reached it ahead of flying axes. The axes cleaved the deck behind him and stayed there, waiting for men who were coming, with long leaps, to regain them.

Against that horde, even The Shadow's guns were not sufficient; but his reinforcements had arrived.

Police were on the dock, shooting at the savage demons who were clearly outlined by the flames. Some of the Aztecs jolted in midair, sprawled on the deck when they struck it. The Shadow, coolly picking targets, was handling the foemen that the police bullets missed.

Though Dorn was dead, The Shadow had saved Nevil and the crew of the Miramar, for they had dived overboard to escape the h.e.l.l-heat that now possessed the yacht. With his own guns, backed by those of the deploying police, The Shadow had his chance to exterminate the tribe of Xitli. All that saved the murderous Aztecs was the thing of their own making: the fire that raged along the deck of the Miramar. Even the power of Xitli did not grant them immunity from flames. They gave up their thrust toward The Shadow and left the yacht in two directions, some diving to the water, others leaping for the dock. Even the bullet-riddled members of the band were capable of fight. Seeing them coming, still alive, the police wisely dropped away, hoping to clip them as they pa.s.sed.

Then the Aztecs were gone, beyond the revealing range of the flames. With fire sweeping toward him, The Shadow dived from the bow of the Miramar and disappeared into the lake. The police controlled the scene, but their work consisted of simple task; that of helping Nevil and the crew of the Miramar, who were floundering in the lake.

Farther along the sh.o.r.e, in the sheltering darkness of a pier, The Shadow came dripping from the water, to find his Xincas waiting. They had started to the aid of their chief, only to be driven off by the flames.

Not wanting to be mistaken for Aztecs, they had wisely slid from sight of the police.

From a car which had arrived amidst the strife, other witnesses watched the burning of the Miramar. One was Eugene Brendle; he was gasping as he viewed the scene. To Brendle, this meant the death of Jonathan Dorn, a man he had never met.

Brendle was declaring something very obvious: that the death of Dorn must be connected with the murder of Carland; that both crimes were certainly the work of an enemy who had a double grudge against both victims.

To Yvonne Carland, the horror of the scene was almost as great as the terror of her uncle's death. Yet, through her numbed brain drilled the thought that at last her story of strange hatchet men would be believed, for those very creatures had tonight revealed themselves amid the flames.

Most stunned of all was Andy Ames. His theories were utterly destroyed. He knew that he had been mistaken during the battle on the Amazonia; that Yvonne had been entirely correct in her description of the strife at the apartment.

The men with hatchets were not the fighters who served The Shadow, for Andy had seen the cloaked warrior engaged in combat with the Aztec throng.

From somewhere, vaguely, came the strident tone of a departing laugh. It told that The Shadow, alone, could solve the riddle of the Aztecs, just as he had proven himself the one opponent who could make them taste defeat!

CHAPTER XIV. MINIONS OF MURDER.

MORNING spread terror throughout New Orleans. The destruction of the Miramar and the death of its owner, Jonathan Dorn, presaged the beginning of new, and more fearful, events.

The city was in a state of siege against a horde within its gates. Even by daylight, persons feared to walk through parks or isolated areas, dreading the menace of squatly killers - strange, stony-faced men who might have come from Mars.

All day, the police were searching for the Aztecs. They did not use that term to describe the a.s.sa.s.sins; the police simply called them "hatchet killers." By evening, announcement was made that the search had been narrowed to the river front; though a rather large area, nevertheless, the news allowed people to breathe more easily.

The waterfront was always a section where anything might happen, and sooner or later, the law could find any culprits who were hiding there. But it didn't occur to anyone to question why the police were sosure that the Aztecs were near the river. The simple answer was that the police had not uncovered the killers anywhere else.

It had not occurred to them that the Aztecs might be living in the colossal new Mayan pyramid that dominated the New Orleans skyscape. There had been trouble at the museum a while before, but since then, the place seemed amply protected. More important, in police estimate, was the episode of the Amazonia.

The police now believed the testimony of the captured Cajun: that squatly men of an unknown race had started the battle on the docked steamship. Hence, the waterfront was the place to look for them.

At dusk, Fitzhugh Salter stopped at the Hotel Luzane, where Professor Hedwin was a guest. Salter tried to call Hedwin's room, but learned that the professor was asleep and could not be disturbed. Hedwin, it seemed, had picked up the Mexican custom of taking a siesta every afternoon.

With a smug smile, Salter left word that he was dining out, and would call the professor later.

But Salter did not go to dinner; instead, he returned to the Mayan Museum. There, in furtive fashion, the curator unlocked the big front door and stole into his own preserves, like a prowling thief.

Despite his stealth, Salter was observed by a watcher across the street - a stooped man, who repressed a cackly laugh. The watcher was Professor Hedwin.

Waiting until a c.h.i.n.k of light appeared from Salter's office window, Hedwin crept into the thickened darkness in a fashion much stealthier than Salter. Hedwin was using a system that he had learned while traversing Mexican jungles, where safety often depended upon complete stealth.

Meanwhile, Andy Ames and Yvonne Carland were dining together, a third person with them. The third person was Eugene Brendle, but the contractor was not having dinner. Instead, he was talking about the deaths of James Carland and Jonathan Dorn.

"We are both losers, Yvonne," declared Brendle, moodily. "Whoever had it in for your uncle and Dorn, certainly hurt us, too. Evidently, all the correspondence concerning the rice land was lost when the yacht burned."

"But I have to raise fifty thousand dollars, somehow," insisted Yvonne. "I owe you the money, Mr.

Brendle."

"Your uncle owed it to me," corrected Brendle, "and after all, he did give me security, though I was a fool to take it. So I'll have to bear the brunt of it, Yvonne. Next week, when the money comes due, I'll simply become the owner of a lot of salt gra.s.s that n.o.body wants."

"Won't someone else buy it?"

"I don't think so. Your uncle used some sales pressure on Cranston, but I think it was just talk. What's more, I haven't seen Cranston since that reception at the museum."

Glancing at his watch, Brendle arose. He went to a telephone in the corner of the private dining room and made a call, but received no answer.

"I was to meet Talborn, for dinner," he said. "Both of us were sorry about our little quarrel. But I can't seem to get hold of him. He was supposed to be home, but he isn't. Well, I suppose I'll find him at one of his many hangouts. Looking for him will give me an appet.i.te." When Brendle had gone, the conversation shifted. As they finished dinner, nearly an hour later, Andy and Yvonne began to discuss The Shadow. Both were agreed that the black-cloaked fighter was the one person who might uncover the missing Aztecs. In that surmise, they were one hundred percent correct.

AT that precise moment, The Shadow was entering the top floor of the Mayan Museum, coming down from the roof promenade. He could hear the low chant of voices.

Placing his suction cups beneath his cloak, he advanced to the door of the throne room. The door was ajar; peering through the crack, The Shadow saw a most singular sight.

On the throne, occupying the basalt stone, sat the living figure of Xitli, the fire G.o.d. In the foreground were the Aztecs, as numerous as the night before, despite the fact that The Shadow had considerably thinned their ranks, in battle. The answer was that more members of the Xitli cult must have arrived from Mexico.