It chanced that eyes were watching from across the street. They belonged to the same observer who had seen Harry enter the Adair Apartments. Those eyes were keen enough to spy Harry again, even though they failed to discern The Shadow.
The watcher waited, however, until Harry had covered nearly half a block. The observer came out from cover, to take up Harry's trail.
He made a thin, stoop-shouldered figure, that trailer. He moved with long strides and kept close to the house fronts. He was lucky, though, because he had lingered. If he had started too soon, he would have been spotted by The Shadow.
As it chanced, the stooped man began his trail just after The Shadow had rounded the nearest corner.
Although police cars were driving up to the Adair Apartments, The Shadow was heading back to the entrance. His amazing stealth enabled him to keep hidden from arriving police. Bluecoats were too thick, however, when The Shadow neared the front of the apartment house.
Choosing a brief opportunity, The Shadow crossed the narrow street toward a line of parked cars in front of the small restaurant.
A taxi wheeled in from the avenue. The Shadow recognized its occupant. The man was Joe Cardona, ace police inspector of the New York force. As usual, Cardona was early on the scene. His arrival brought a whispered laugh from The Shadow. Joe's cab offered The Shadow a convenient method of departure from this vicinity.
Just as Cardona stepped to the curb and closed his door, The Shadow reached the taxi from the other side. He handled the outside door in silent fashion. He was in the cab, lost in its darkness, while Cardona was still paying the driver.
From the opened window on the curb side, The Shadow could reach out and touch the stocky figure of Cardona.
That gave The Shadow a prompt inspiration. For a moment, his cloaked arm stretched from the window.
Cardona turned to enter the apartment house; the cab pulled away. The Shadow settled deep in the back seat, content to accept any destination that the unwitting cab driver might choose.
INSIDE the apartment house, Cardona found police in charge of captured crooks. He showed a pleased look on his swarthy face when he learned that the notorious Nogger Tellif had come to a timely death atop a ground-floor elevator. Joe was also pleased to learn that more facts awaited him on the sixth floor.
There, Cardona entered Francine's apartment and heard the girl's whole story. Fred, conscious but disgruntled, was clamped in a chair between two officers. When Francine accused him, the elevator operator could do nothing but admit his guilt.
"Sure, I was the finger man," growled Fred. "You got the goods on me! Only, I don't know who snatched the sparklers. I wasn't told. All I saw was what this Melrue dame saw - a guy wearing a mask.
I don't know who the big-shot was, either. He always reached me through another guy, over the telephone."
Fred spoke the truth regarding Wally. He did not know just who had been deputed for tonight's job. He lied, though, when he disclaimed acquaintance with Duke Unrig.
Cardona eyed Fred for a while; then gave an indifferent grunt.
"We'll find out all we want to know," he promised. Then, to Francine, he said: "What we want right now, Miss Melrue, is a description of the stolen jewels. Maybe I can get them back for you in a hurry."
Joe Cardona never fulfilled a promise more rapidly than he did that one. As Francine started to describe the gems, Cardona shoved his hand into his big overcoat pocket, to find a small note book that he carried there. His hand came out clutching a well-stuffed platinum purse.
"My platinum bag!" exclaimed Francine. "Where did you find it, inspector?"
Cardona's fingers clicked the clasp; the bag popped open. It almost fell from Joe's loosened hand. As the bag tilted, a flood of jewels went clattering to the table top, while Cardona gaped in complete amazement.
It never occurred to Joe Cardona that the bag had been neatly dropped into his pocket from the window of the very cab that had brought him here. Like other gifts from The Shadow, this one had come mysteriously, leaving no trace of its donor.
In Cardona's opinion, the real solution of a robbery came with the restoration of the stolen goods. That was why the ace had come here; to reclaim the missing Melrue jewels.
Thanks to The Shadow, Joe Cardona found the solution tucked in his pocket.
CHAPTER V. DUKE COLLECTS
THE next day found Joe Cardona still pondering over the mysterious return of the Melrue jewels. Joe had covered his own surprise by simply stating that he "happened across" the gems and brought them back to Francine.
The result had been some excellent newspaper write-ups, praising Cardona's cleverness. Around headquarters, everyone expected Joe to have a swelled head; but the ace remained modest and noncommittal.
If Cardona's success entitled him to a swelled head, Duke Unrig's failure should have given that big-shot a headache. Oddly, it didn't. Seated in a garish apartment, Duke Unrig was in the best of humor as he enjoyed a late breakfast of ham and eggs.
Duke was a husky individual with the build of an ox. His heavy, bushy-browed face was one that could glower on the slightest provocation. That made it all the more surprising when Duke chuckled over the newspaper that told of his broken crime.
A tough looking bodyguard announced two visitors: Wally Drillick and Cliff Marsland. Duke said to show them in. They arrived. Duke laughed heavily when he looked at Wally.
The smooth crook was haggard and unshaven, the clothes that he wore were cheap and baggy. Wally certainly made a pitiful contrast to his usually natty appearance.
Cliff Marsland was a well-built fellow, with chiseled features and a square-set jaw. His eyes had a coldness that went well with his poker-faced expression. Duke surveyed Cliff with approval; then introduced the visitors to each other.
"This is Wally Drillick," Duke told Cliff. "The guy the bulls are after, for trying to snatch the rocks that belonged to that Melrue dame."
To Wally, Duke stated:
"This is Cliff Marsland. I'm getting him to take over Nogger's job. I'll need a good guy on that trick."
Wally and Cliff shook hands. Wally had heard of Cliff; but had never met him before. Cliff, however, had seen Wally as recently as last night. Cliff was one of the two men who had stowed Wally in the basement of the empty house. Since Wally had been unconscious at the time, it was not surprising that he did not remember Cliff.
To the underworld, Cliff Marsland was a reputed killer; as tough and as dangerous a fighter as any big-shot would want for a lieutenant. Secretly, Cliff was an agent of The Shadow. He had been waiting for a long time to gain the opportunity of joining up with Duke Unrig. Nogger's death had provided the opening.
"WHAT soured the job?" queried Duke, addressing Wally. "I mean, before The Shadow breezed into the picture."
Wally gave the details of his capture. He remembered The Shadow's tactics in the cab. Later, Wally had awakened to find himself bound and gagged in an empty basement. It had taken him until dawn to get out of his bonds.
"I couldn't go around in a tux," completed Wally, "and I was too jittery to head back to the apartment.
So I cracked into a tailoring shop and ditched the glad rags. I took this suit instead."
"You must have been jittery," snorted Duke, "or you'd have picked a better fit! Well, Wally, the racket's finished, now that The Shadow is wise to it. Here" - Duke drew a sheaf of bank notes from his pocket -
"take this dough and lam!"
There was fully a thousand dollars in the wad. Wally muttered grateful thanks for Duke's generosity. The big-shot thumbed toward the door. His laughter had ended; his face was showing a glower, that indicated he might change his mind about the money. Wally made a hurried departure.
Duke's lips fixed in a hard, ugly smile.
"Just another guy that went yellow in the pinch," the big-shot said to Cliff. "It don't matter, though. I'm through with the fancy stuff. The Shadow's queered it! What Wally told me was worth the grand I paid him."
; Duke drew a sheet of paper from a table drawer and wrote out details with a fountain pen. He folded the paper and put it in an envelope; gave it to the bodyguard. He said something that puzzled Cliff.
"That's the report on Wally," stated Duke. "There'll be a guy around to pick it up. It covers everything.
We know why the job was stalled. It wasn't Wally who slid into the dame's apartment. It was some stooge that The Shadow sent in Wally's place."
Why Duke had sent a report somewhere was something that Cliff could not understand. He knew that Duke was an independent big-shot who ran his own game and took orders from no one. Cliff hoped that Duke would explain further; but the big-shot had other things on his mind.
"A lot of big fellows have tried that high-class stuff," declared Duke, "and they've been running into trouble from The Shadow. Once that game gets cracked, it's through. Only I'm not washed up, like those other bimbos.
"I've been waiting for something like this to happen; and all the while, I've been set to play something different when the time came. I'm going to stage some old-style jobs; and I'm counting on you, Cliff.
What I needed was a guy as brainy as Wally and as hard-boiled as Nogger. You're the guy!"
DUKE produced a sheet of paper and began to draw a rough chart in pencil. The diagram showed streets and avenues in Manhattan. Duke drew a circle around a corner north of Times Square.
"This is the uptown branch of the Gotham Trust Company," explained the big-shot. "It stays open late on Friday nights. Takes in a lot of dough in deposits. Down here" - Duke ran his pencil to the vicinity of Twenty-third Street - "is the main bank. At ten o'clock every Friday night, an armored truck leaves the branch building and comes to the main banking offices."
Leaning back in his chair, Duke wagged the pencil and added, with a hard grin:
"That truck brings the dough. The finger men have been looking into it. They found out that two chain stores close their books on Friday afternoons and shove their cash into that branch bank. There's been an average of better than two hundred and fifty grand going downtown in that truck, every Friday!"
Cliff nodded as he studied the diagram. He pointed to the uptown circle.
"I get it," said Cliff. "You'll case this joint up here and tip me off when the trip starts. Down here" - Cliff tapped the lower circle - "I'll handle the truck when she shows up."
Duke reached across the table to deliver a hearty thwack on Cliff's shoulder.
"That's the way I like to hear a fellow talk," chuckled Duke. "You're ready to take the tough part of the job! Good stuff, Cliff! Only, I'm handling the job myself. Down here at Twenty-third Street. I'll have five men with me. Your job is to cover up with another crew, and see that we make a get-away."
"But the uptown branch -"
"We won't even case it. That might make somebody suspicious. If the trip starts all sweet and pretty, the mugs in the truck won't be expecting trouble. There's a couple of watchmen at the downtown bank. As soon as they lug the first box from the truck, my outfit will step into the picture. With the truck door opened, it will he a cinch! There'll be a big chase starting right after that. Your outfit will be placed to stop it."
Cliff's nod showed approval of the details along with his complete understanding. Duke crumpled the diagram and threw it in the wastebasket. He glanced at Cliff's poker face and thought that it registered keen anticipation of the coming crime.
"Today's Friday," reminded Duke. "That means tonight."
Cliff was thinking along that very line. Long before evening, this news would reach The Shadow. Cliff had a hunch that his black-cloaked chief would find some way to completely nullify Duke's quarter-million job.
AS Cliff leaned back, Duke's bodyguard entered. The fellow was bringing a compact square-shaped bundle. He told Duke that the caller had come for the envelope and had left the package in its place.
Duke waited until the bodyguard had gone then gave a basso chuckle.
"They didn't even wait for the report," expressed Duke. "I call that service! I guess the newspapers told them enough."
Cliff sat puzzled while Duke ripped open the package. His perplexity was doubled when he saw the contents. The bundle contained crisp currency of high denominations. Duke thumbed the bills rapidly; the count satisfied him.
"One hundred grand," he announced. He eyed Cliff steadily and was impressed by his new lieutenant's poker-faced gaze. "How's that for a payoff?"
"Neat!" decided Cliff. "It looks like one of your jobs went over the way you wanted it."
"It didn't though," returned Duke. "This mazuma is from the job that flopped last night. Those sparklers that Wally didn't snatch were worth a hundred grand weren't they? All right. Here's the dough. One hundred thousand bucks!"
Duke put the money away. He walked to the door and Cliff followed. Duke reminded Cliff to be on hand by eight o'clock that evening. With a parting laugh the big-shot added:
"Got you guessing, haven't I, Cliff? I handed you the straight dope though. That dough came from the Melrue job. The dame still has the sparklers; I've got the mazuma. Figure that one, Cliff."
"I can't, Duke."
"I'll give you the lowdown later. After tonight's job. You're a guy that knows plenty Cliff; but you'll learn a lot more sticking along with me."
Once away from Duke's quarters, Cliff put in a call to Burbank. He gave the contact man full details of Duke's scheme to hold up the bank truck. Cliff added a report concerning the mysterious money that Duke had received as redress for the thwarted jewel robbery.
As Duke had said, Cliff knew plenty. The Shadow would soon know the same. The man who would learn more was Duke Unrig. The big-shot would learn it from The Shadow tonight.
Yet the bundle of cash still puzzled Cliff. It was something unique in crime. A pay-off for a job that had fluked!
One person alone could solve that riddle. The Shadow! Cliff was confident that The Shadow would work on it, after dealing tonight's final blow to crime.
Cliff was half right; half wrong. Solving the riddle of that payoff would become The Shadow's quest; but it would mark the beginning, not the finish, of a battle against supercrime.
In handling Duke Unrig, The Shadow would be merely clearing the way to the strangest campaign of his entire career. That quest was to confront The Shadow with the sternest opposition that he had ever encountered.
CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW STRIKES
ALL looked quiet outside the Gotham Trust Company at ten-fifteen that night. Two uniformed watchmen were waiting just within the side door. They saw nothing amiss on the street outside.
Word had arrived that the armored truck had started from the uptown branch. It would be due sometime before half past ten. The call from the uptown branch was a usual Friday night procedure.
Just down the street from the bank's side door was a parked limousine. It was an old car but large and of expensive make. It looked like the sort that belonged to some wealthy owner who preferred it to a less commodious modern car.
Since the limousine had parked at the same spot on previous nights, it aroused no suspicions from the bank watchmen.
Actually, that limousine was one that Duke Unrig had bought cheaply, a month ago. Its previous trips to this vicinity had served as a blind. Tonight, the big car contained four huddled lurking men: Duke Unrig and three of his gunmen.
Two more of Duke's star trigger men were crouched in a taxi parked back near the corner.
One block down the street, Cliff Marsland had the reserve crew. They were out of sight in vantage points. Not far away, two old but speedy sedans were waiting for them when needed.
Across the street, midway between the bank and the reserve crew, was a little restaurant that had private dining booths upstairs. One booth fronted on the street; its window was curtained. Those drapes were separated only two inches - too small a space to be noted from the street.
From that spot, eyes were peering - the same eyes that had watched Harry Vincent enter the Adair Apar
tments. Those eyes belonged to the observer who had later trailed Harry, after he had finished his role as substitute for Wally Drillick.
Nothing that happened on the outside street would escape the scrutiny of that hidden watcher.
The big hands on the large clock outside the Gotham Trust had crept to eighteen minutes after ten. A bulky vehicle suddenly appeared from up the street. Rolling closer it proved to be an armored truck. The wheeled fortress cut into the open space beside the bank door, where signs prohibited other cars from parking.
The two watchmen stepped from the bank door, their hands on revolvers that swung in side holsters.
They looked up and down the street and gave a simultaneous nod. The door of the truck opened.
Inside were stacks of metal boxes. Hands started the first box outward. The watchmen took it between them.
Doors whammed open from the limousine and the taxi. Duke's picked crew drove up with leveled revolvers; three came from the limousine, two from the taxi. Duke remained behind, beside the big car.
The watchmen heard the rush. They had no time to draw their revolvers. Caught flat-footed, they could only look for aid from the armored van.
It was too late for that. Each watchmen was covered by a different trigger man. The other three torpedoes had their guns trained on the open door of the armored van. Inside were men with upraised arms.
DUKE UNRIG stalked up to take charge. He snapped a sharp order to the helpless watchmen.
"Drop that box you're holding!" Duke told them. "And yank out the others, one at a time! Keep remembering that we've got the bead on you!"
The uniformed men released the container that they had. It thudded to the sidewalk. At the same instant, a man inside the truck gave a knee-shove to the top box of the stack that stood there. The results were extraordinary.
The first box cracked open the instant that it struck the cement. From its interior came a puff of enveloping gas that shrouded the watchmen and the pair of thugs that covered them. Choking, the four went to their hands and knees, clawing their faces to offset the instantaneous effect of a powerful tear gas.
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