CHAPTER VII
THE SHADOW'S COURSE
It was afternoon, and Margo Lane was gazing from the roof garden of the
Hotel Tropico, in Miami. She was looking across the wide green strip of
Bayfront Park, to the greater breadth of blue that represented Biscayne Bay.
Among the assorted speedboats Margo saw one of somewhat larger build, yet
with the trim lines of a racer.
Coming up the bay, the boat was tooting for a drawbridge to open, and
Margo identified the shrill, whistly blast that carried across the water.
"There's another," stated Margo. "That makes eleven."
Lamont Cranston didn't even glance up from his newspaper as he inquired
absently:
"Eleven what?"
"Eleven of the mosquito ships," returned Margo, a bit petulantly. "I've
been counting them, all afternoon, as you asked. Or didn't you?"
Cranston's usually immobile lips flickered with a smile.
"Sorry, Margo," he said. "I did ask you to count the mosquito fleet.
Seven, you say?"
"Eleven," corrected Margo. "There should be one more. Go back to your
reading. I'll watch for it."
Cranston gave the newspaper a flourish.
"A great deal here about the Durez murder," he declared. "The police are
quite positive that a former con man named Murk Wessel maneuvered it. The only
trouble is, they can't prove it."
Margo nodded, still a trifle annoyed. She had heard so much talk
concerning Murk Wessel. The police had two reasons for suspecting him to be the
master of the murder ring. First, all the dead crooks found on the battle round
at the Equator had been former cronies of Murk. Again, Murk himself had been
seen in Miami the morning before the crime.
There was also talk of a mysterious Mr. Brown who had reserved a suite at
the Hotel Equator, thanks to the connivance of an employee who had been slain
while helping crooks get away with Durez's millions.
Very obviously, Mr. Brown was none other than Murk Wessel, for the
mysterious guest had disappeared at the time of the robbery. At least, the
police regarded it as obvious, but that didn't mean it would stand in a court
of law.
Murk Wessel would have to be found first. Once found, whatever alibi he
gave would have to be shattered. Even then, the evidence against him would be
largely circumstantial. So far, the police were still occupied with the
preliminary work - that of locating the man they wanted.
"I've not only heard of Murk Wessel," mused Cranston, "I've met him,
Margo. Two or three times, and he was always using an alias. I don't think the
chap liked me. I knew too much about him."
"Why didn't you have him arrested?"
Margo put the question tartly, hoping that Cranston would catch the deeper
inference. As The Shadow, Cranston didn't usually meet known criminals three
times. Once was the usual rule, at which time he generally terminated their
