"But it's not the testimony alone that's influencing me. Under the circumstances, I might just as well tell you what's in back of it. I happen to know who this dead man is. I've seen his mug a good many times before. Dobie Wentz—that's who he is. Ever hear that name?"
"No," Harry again responded.
"He was a tough guy," said Cardona reminiscently. "I guess he thought he was tougher than Zipper Marsh, the bird he worked with. That's why he's here. Pulled a double cross."
Harry, listening, thought of the envelope. A dead gangster—a pal of another ruffian—a letter to The Shadow—the facts connected themselves in his mind. Harry made no comment, nor did he change expression.
"Dobie was in wrong all around," continued Cardona, "that's why he got what he got. These mobsters pull stuff in any hotel. If Zipper didn't get him, some other gangster did. That's why I'm easing you out.
You're just an innocent goat in the mix-up. They don't care who gets in wrong, those fellows."
Cardona was studying the body; Harry was watching the detective. This revelation of the dead man's name was important news. With the mysterious envelope, it must go to The Shadow. Here, Harry knew, might be the beginning of insidious crime.
HARRY had a friendly feeling toward Joe Cardona. He knew the detective well by reputation; he also knew facts that Cardona could not possibly suspect.
Stupendous crimes had been solved by Cardona—according to the New York newspapers. Harry was one of the few who knew the truth about the cases. Credit which Cardona had received, rightfully belonged to The Shadow.
Harry repressed a smile as he considered his own indirect connection with Cardona. Should the detective suddenly decide to hold him, his release would not be long forthcoming, of that Harry was certain.
Often—to what extent Harry did not fully know—Cardona had been aided by The Shadow. Harry realized that it would be no task at all for The Shadow to see that one of his agents was freed from custody when Joe Cardona was in charge.
This, however, would not be necessary, unless the detective suddenly changed his mind. Cardona gave no sign of so doing. He was engrossed in thought, and Harry wondered if the sleuth were thinking of The Shadow.
Should this case of Dobie Wentz prove the forerunner of greater crimes, The Shadow would most surely appear in the offing.
"That's all!" remarked Cardona abruptly, as he turned to Harry. "I've put you wise just so you'll remember to say nothing about this matter. Chances are I won't need to talk to you again. I've got all the dope there is to know. But if I want to get your testimony over again, I'll find you here, eh?"
"Yes," responded Harry. "I intend to stay at this hotel. I'm in no mood for traveling after this. I'm going to pick a room on another floor. That's all."
HALF an hour afterward, Harry Vincent was secluded in a room on a higher story of the Metrolite Hotel. The young man was seated at a writing desk. Before him lay that mysterious object—the letter to The Shadow. Harry congratulated himself that he had carried it away without Cardona's knowledge.
He wondered what lay within the envelope; yet he resisted all impulse to open the mysterious wrapper.
That act must be left to The Shadow.
Taking a sheet of paper, Harry wrote a series of cryptic words, using a fountain pen that he took from his pocket. The words were in simple code, which Harry knew by heart. He folded the message and sealed it within a blank envelope. This would go to The Shadow with the gangster's letter.
In all communication with The Shadow, Harry used both that code and the special ink which the fountain pen contained. Orders that he received were similarly inscribed.
The code was easily read by a man who might know its secret; but should the messages fall into the hands of other parties, no time would be afforded toward attempting to decipher the code. The ink which The Shadow used, and supplied to his agents, had a habit of disappearing very rapidly after a letter had been exposed to the air.
Harry remained in his room for a short while; then went down to the lobby. He saw no sign of Joe Cardona. He decided that the body of Dobie Wentz must have been removed from Room 1408, and that now the detective was gone.
Harry gave no sign that he was looking for any one. He retained his usual calm demeanor. Long service with The Shadow had taught him many wise and effective lessons.
At last, Harry walked to the street in a leisurely, unaffected fashion. He turned his steps toward Broadway. He was in no apparent haste. To all intents, he was out for a lazy stroll along Manhattan's winding thoroughfare.
Slowing his steps, Harry Vincent gradually stopped before the entrance of a towering office building.
Here he entered, in an unconcerned manner. As though engaged in no business of importance, he went into an elevator and give his stop as the twenty-first floor. Alighting, he walked along a corridor and stopped at Suite 2121. Upon the door appeared this title:
RUTLEDGE MANN
INVESTMENTS
A few minutes later, Harry Vincent was talking with a quiet, full-faced individual who sat lazily at a large, flat-topped mahogany desk. He was reporting to Rutledge Mann, in the inner office of Suite 2121.
In his hand, Harry held his own coded report, and with it the manila envelope that was addressed to The Shadow.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
EARLY the same evening a thick, square-set man entered the lobby of the Metrolite Hotel. Although quiet and deliberate in action, there was something about the man's appearance that gave him a distinctive air.
His firm face wore a set expression. His right hand swung a long, thick cane. His left held a smoking cigarette.
This arrival walked directly into an elevator. He stood motionless in a corner as the car moved upward.
His shoulders were erect. His right hand held the cane straight beside him. His left, with crooked elbow aiding, kept the cigarette only a few inches below his chin.
This pose was apparently habitual with the man. It gave him a somewhat military appearance. Despite this, the man was not conspicuous. The other passengers in the elevator scarcely noticed him. When he told the operator to let him off at the sixteenth floor, his tone was carefully modulated.
After leaving the elevator, this stranger went directly to a door marked 1609. He tapped lightly with the head of his cane. The peculiar resonance of the tap was evidently recognized from within. The door opened, and the visitor was admitted.
One small light shone in the corner of the room. It dimly outlined the figure of the man who had answered the door. This individual was shorter and chunkier than his visitor. His face, too, was firm; but it showed crude features that gave its owner a wolfish expression.
"Hello, Zubian," croaked the occupant of Room 1609. "Been expecting you ever since morning."
"I waited until after nightfall, Gats," responded the visitor dryly. "Discretion is wise at all times."
"Thought maybe I was in a jam, eh?" "Gats" chuckled as he spoke. "Well, I don't blame you. That looked like a risky job this morning, but I knew it would swing easy. When Gats Hackett does his stuff, it goes across."
"Apparently," said Zubian, with a smile.
Gats Hackett grinned. He took the statement as a compliment.
THE contrast between the two men was obvious. Gats Hackett was as crude as his visitor was subtle.
That was why Gats had a wholesome respect for this man whom he knew as Felix Zubian.
With an evil smile, Gats produced a bottle of liquor. He offered his visitor a drink, and Zubian accepted.
This act completed, Gats sat in a chair opposite Zubian, and began to talk in a low tone.
"I'll give you the whole lay, Zubian," he said. "If I've figured it right, the job is going through on schedule.
You're not in on this part of the work, but Carleton wants you to know the whole business, so I might as well start with the beginning, even if he's already told you some of it."
"Proceed," said Zubian quietly.
"Well, w
e're out to get The Shadow!" declared Gats emphatically.
"The Shadow," repeated Zubian reflectively. "The Shadow—whoever he may be."
"The Shadow's real enough," stated Gats, licking his cracked lips. "Maybe you've never heard much about him—being out of the country the way you've been; but I've heard about him. Say—you don't think I run a mob for nothing, do you?"
Zubian did not reply. He merely shook his head.
Gats helped himself to another drink, and stared directly at Zubian as he continued to assert the reality of The Shadow.
"Listen, Zubian," said Gats, "when this silk-hat fellow, Carleton, came to me and give me a chance to work in on the big jobs he's planning, I grabbed the idea quick. Savvy? Carleton tells me that with a good guy working for him—a guy with a mob—he can knock off plenty. He's got the dough to back it.
"When he told me that he had lined up a smart guy from the other side of the pond—meaning you—I figured there would be plenty in it. But when Carleton spills the thought that he's going after jewels in a big way, I tells him that we've got to fix The Shadow first."
"Why The Shadow?"
"Because that bimbo has queered some mighty big jobs in the jewel line. Did you ever hear about the raid that some smart boys pulled on the Bolsheviks in Moscow; when they went after the Russian crown jewels?"
"Yes. I heard talk of it in Paris."
"Well, those in the know figure The Shadow put the skids under that job. But there's another case that goes further back than that. Ever hear of Diamond Bert Farley?"
"No."
"He's doing time now. Had the greatest racket in the country. Disguised himself like a chink, and called himself Wang Foo. The cops got him and sent him away to the Big House. But it wasn't the cops that got him—it was The Shadow."
Gats paused for a few moments, then continued his account in a reminiscent voice.
"There's not many of them see The Shadow and remember it," he declared. "Bert Farley was one. He's keeping mighty mum, I'll tell you. The Shadow let him live so the bulls could make him confess. He didn't tell them much more than he had to. But he hates The Shadow, and he squawked to an old pal of his—
Squint Freston."
"Ah!" Interest was expressed in Zubian's tone. "Squint Freston! The same man that is -"
"The smooth guy that's working for me right now," interposed Gats, with a knowing grin.
"What does Freston know?"
"He figures he knows plenty. He found out from Diamond Bert that The Shadow had a guy working for him. So Squint goes snooping around on his own hook. The breaks were with him. He saw a guy that answered Diamond Bert's description. That's the guy we're working on now."
"Harry Vincent?"
"You guessed it. Now I'll give you the dope. This bird Vincent seems to be a sort of handy man for The Shadow. We figured that if The Shadow got wise to something through Vincent, he'd fall for it. So we framed the gag.
"First, we grabbed off Dobie Wentz. He was a rat—Dobie—a regular double-crosser. At odds with his pal, Zipper Marsh. We took two rooms here at the Metrolite. This is one—my room; Squint took the other on the fourteenth floor. Both of us under phony names.
"Last night we got Dobie up to the room that Squint was living in. Had him half doped, and kept him that way. Just enough shots of hop so he wouldn't really wake up.
"This morning, down in Squint's room, we watch and see Vincent go out. Good. Squint meets the chambermaid in the corridor and bamboozles her into opening the door of Vincent's room—1408.
"We slide Dobie in there. Load him with some sure poison, and set him on the bed; then let him flop down on the floor. We plant some odd articles around him, and among them an envelope addressed to The Shadow."
"Ah! So Vincent would discover it on his return."
"Sure thing. That's just what Vincent does. But Squint and I aren't around to watch it. We're up here, laying low.
"It made a big mess, finding that body, but we figured Vincent would be smart enough to sneak the envelope. He must have done it, and got away with it. Joe Cardona, the dick, came up to investigate, and he let Vincent go. Couldn't hold him; he had a good-enough alibi."
"And then?"
"Squint took up the trail. Smart gazebo, Squint. He's the best guy in the business when it comes to trailing anybody."
"Perhaps," observed Zubian. "I doubt it, though. I know of one who is probably superior."
"Not here in New York?"
"Here in New York," responded Zubian significantly.
"I'd like to meet him," growled Gats. "Well, there's no use arguing about it. Squint is doing this job. He's trailing Vincent; and that way, he's going to find The Shadow. That's why I wanted you here to-night—or earlier. I've been expecting Squint back. When he gets here, he'll have plenty to say. I want you to hear it."
FELIX ZUBIAN was reflective. He was a calm man, who seldom expressed his detailed thoughts. The words of Gats Hackett had been of the utmost interest to him.
Despite his inquisitive attitude, Zubian knew much more than he had shown. He had heard of The Shadow in Paris. He knew of a mysterious raid, in the heart of the apache district of the French capital, wherein The Shadow had triumphed over the fiercest fiends of the Parisian underworld.
All that Gats Hackett had said to-night was known to Zubian. He had heard it from their mutual friend—the man to whom Gats had referred as a "silk hat."
Douglas Carleton was the name of the "silk hat," and Carleton was much closer to Zubian than he was to Hackett. In the maze of crime that Douglas Carleton was now sponsoring, Felix Zubian would eventually take a role far beyond that played by Gats Hackett. For Zubian was a crook of international repute, while Gats was merely a minor gang leader in New York.
Zubian's face took on an inscrutable expression. Gats Hackett studied his visitor narrowly.
In some ways, Gats felt an animosity toward this supercrook whom he recognized as above his plane; at the same time, Gats, because of his unwilling sense of inferiority, was forced to show respect to this man who had but recently arrived in America.
Whenever Gats was puzzled, he took another drink, so he performed the action at this time, after offering liquor to Felix Zubian, who declined it. Minutes of silence went by; then came a low but sharp rap at the door. Gats hastened to answer it.
The man who entered was a strange, leering fellow, whose fanglike teeth showed in a perpetual grin.
Felix Zubian had never seen him before, but he knew that this must be "Squint" Freston. The beady eyes that shone from a sallow, drawn face proved the origin of the gangster's nickname.
In his hand, Squint held a blackjack. He had used this instrument to tap the door in the peculiar fashion that meant a welcome visitor awaited without.
Seeing Zubian, Squint made no comment. He looked toward Gats, who nodded. That was sufficient. It meant that Zubian was in the know.
"Hello, Gats," began Squint, in a snarling voice. "I had the right lay. Trailed that bozo like I said I would.
There ain't no doubt about it— Vincent's workin' for The Shadow."
"Well?" demanded Gats impatiently. "Who's The Shadow?"
Squint's fangy teeth parted in a surprised gape. Then his small, thin frame shook convulsively, as he broke into a muffed guffaw.
"Say, Gats," he questioned derisively, "wotta you expect of a guy? Think I'm goin' to walk right in and find The Shadow just because I'm trailin' one of his stools? You ain't gone loony, have you, Gats? I got some good dope for you, right enough, but I ain't seen The Shadow."
GATS, evidently grouchy from the effects of the liquor, uttered a vague reply. After that, he said nothing; he merely waited to learn what Squint might have to say.
"I trailed Vincent," declared the little gangster. "Trailed him right. Picked him up outside of the hotel, after Cardona had let him go. Followed him neat, Gats, down to a building on Broadway. Up the elevator, without him noticin' me. He went to 2121."
"And after that?"
"What's the idea?" growled Gats. "You let him slide away?"
"I did—nix!" leered Squint, with a shrewd chuckle. "I ain't that dumb, Gats. I got a guy with me. One of the gang stayin' outside the Grandville Building. That fellow took care of Vincent. Trailed him back to this hotel. That's where he is now. I waited at the Grandville Building."
"What happened there?"
"A guy come out—another guy—a fat-faced dude. Silly sort of a bird, one of those that would start to bawl if you shoved a rod against his ribs. So I trail Fatty. That's where I was wise."
"Who was he?"
"Rutledge Mann is his moniker. The guy that runs the office. Sells stocks. I figured who he was when I seen him, an' I found out later who he was.
"He goes down in the elevator with me after him, an' I trail him down to Twenty-third Street. There he goes into a dumpy old building. I knows somethin' was up as soon as I sees that. No white-shirt like this bimbo is goin' down there to see Mr. Astorbilt."
"Did you follow him into the building?" Gats asked.
"Sure thing. I watch him from the bottom of the stairs. I see him takin' a couple of envelopes from his pocket. One looks like the one we planted on Dobie. I ain't close enough to see for sure. Then I starts up the stairs, but I have to do a duck. This Mann guy is comin' out again."
"That quick?"
"Yeah. But he ain't got the envelopes in his mitt. That wises me up. He's left 'em some place in the buildin'. I snoop around a bit down there, later on, but I ain't been able to figure just where he went. All I know is that this guy Mann has dumped the dokaments somewhere in that joint."
"Which means?"
"That The Shadow has a hideout there!" concluded Squint.
"Yeah?" questioned Gats, in an angry tone. "Well, why didn't you locate the hideout?"
"Gimme time, Gats—gimme time!" Squint came back. "I had two more of the gang on my trail when I followed this Mann gazebo. They've been watchin' there ever since, reportin' to me all along. They ain't seen no one suspiciouslike goin' in or out.
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