One of Harry's specialties was his ability to visit lawyers. Harry's home was in Michigan. He had a mythical interest in property which contained gravel. It was an easy matter for him to call upon a New York attorney to discuss the handling of legal affairs pertaining to the property.
Moreover, Harry could create the impression that he was about to leave for Michigan, and therefore desired a preliminary interview without delay. He saw where he could use this plan with Ruggles Preston.
The lawyer's name was in the telephone book. Immediately after dinner, Harry called Preston's home. He talked in urgent fashion, and arranged to call upon the lawyer that evening. It was eight o'clock when Harry started from Times Square in a taxicab.
TWENTY minutes later, the cab rolled along a side street toward a large apartment house. Harry, looking from the window, failed to notice a sedan that was waiting by the curb, in the darkness. He alighted from the cab, entered the apartment building, and took an automatic elevator up to Preston's floor.
Back along the street, men were seated in the sedan that Harry's cab had passed. They had seen the young man alight at the apartment building. A low voice growled in the darkness. It was the same voice that Worth Varden had heard the night before, from the man who had introduced himself as Joe Cardona.
"Do you think that's the mug we're after?"
"Don't ask me, Ruff," came a snarled reply. "If it is, we'll know it."
"How, Snakes?" questioned the first speaker.
"He'll be marked," was the answer. "I got the dope over the telephone."
"Who from? The same bird that tipped you off to Varden?"
"That's my business, Ruff. You know where I stand. You know that everything I tell you comes from Gray Fist. You stick to that. You're getting paid for it."
"Yeah. I'm getting paid. But I'm not going to quit, whether I get paid or not. Gray Fist has got the goods on me—like he has on everybody else, I guess."
The two men were sitting alone in the parked car. The driver had left; Ruff and Snakes were in the rear seat. They swung their conversation to a less important topic. Suddenly Ruff silenced his companion as a head appeared by the opened window.
"Who's that?" questioned Ruff.
"Gowdy," came the low answer. It was the man who had driven the car the night before. "Listen, Ruff.
There was a fellow snooping around here a minute ago. He went up along the street."
"Where to?"
"I don't know. I tipped Caulkey and Jake to follow him. It looked like he was trying to listen in on what you were saying."
"Stick around, Gowdy. If he comes back, Caulkey and Jake will be on his trail. Give them the word to grab him if he snoops again."
"O.K., Ruff."
"Gowdy" sidled away from the car. He took his post beneath the steps of an old-fashioned house. He looked along the street toward a lighted corner. He saw two figures there; they looked like "Caulkey"
and Jake.
GOWDY'S speculation was correct. Two rough-faced characters were standing at the corner toward which the car driver had started. They were waiting by the door of a drug store. The man whom they had followed had entered the place.
Neither Jake nor Caulkey could see the man at present. He had sauntered to a far corner, and was loitering there. The gangsters were wisely keeping out of sight, until the man should return.
The man within the store was watching toward the door. At last, convinced that no one was observing him, he looked about for a telephone booth. He saw one, against the side window of the store. He entered it, and closed the door. An automatic light appeared.
The man who was telephoning was a husky chap with a firm, square chin. He was wearing old clothes, which took away the clean-cut appearance which should have been his natural possession. He dropped a nickel in the phone box, lifted the receiver, and paused a moment before dialing his number.
Coincidentally, Jake and Caulkey, the waiting gangsters, had moved down the side street a few paces.
The street was dark at the spot where they stood. They could not be seen from within the drug store. As chance would have it, however, the man in the telephone booth was partly visible to the two outside.
Jake gripped Caulkey's arm. The first mobster had happened to glance toward the window where the phone booth was located. He growled quick sentences to Caulkey.
"Say!" uttered Jake. "There's the guy! Look! In the phone booth. He's goin' to make a call."
Drawing Caulkey, Jake edged close to the window. Both mobsters watched with avid eyes while the man within began to use the dial.
"Say"—Caulkey's voice denoted recognition—"I know that bird. It's Cliff Marsland. I wonder what he's doin' around here."
"Ps-s-t!"
The slight hiss came from beside the two mobsters. Both turned. They saw a man beside them. He identified himself with a short growl. It was the gangster called Snakes.
"Get along, you guys," ordered Snakes. "I'm watching here. I came up from the car. Get down there and lay for this guy when he comes back. Stay out of sight with Gowdy."
As Caulkey and Jake moved away, Snakes pressed closer to the window. His form was stooped and hunched. He watched with sharp, beady eyes. His voice came in a low mumble that ended with a chuckle.
While the two mobsters had been identifying Cliff Marsland, Snakes had been observing the actions of the man in the telephone booth. Something that he had noted seemed to please him. He was watching Cliff's lips—as much as he could see of them. He could not catch the conversation, although he did manage to pick up disconnected words.
CLIFF MARSLAND was talking to Burbank. Completely ignorant of the fact that a man was watching from without, The Shadow's agent was giving information to the contact man.
"I'm following Ruff Shefflin," Cliff was saying. "He's a pretty tough guy. Big mob leader. I've got a hunch he may have made trouble for Seth Cowry."
"Where is he now?" came Burbank's question over the wire.
"Parked in a sedan near the Mandrilla Apartments," informed Cliff. "There's a bad egg with him—a fellow named Snakes Blakey. That's what gave me the hunch. Snakes is supposed to be the neatest trailer in the business."
"Have you been observed?" questioned Burbank.
"No." Cliff's tone was positive. "I'm going back to listen in again. I'll call later when I've found out whether this means anything or not."
Hanging up the receiver, Cliff rose to leave the booth. He threw a glance toward the street as he did so, but noticed no one outside the window. Snakes Blakey, wary sneak of the underworld, had wisely eased away to escape notice.
When Cliff reached the street, there was no sign of Snakes. The stoop-shouldered gangster was keeping out of sight behind a row of parked cars. He took up Cliff's trail after The Shadow's agent had started along the side street toward the apartment building near which Ruff Shefflin's car was located.
Cliff was wary as he reached the automobile. He approached cautiously, straining his ears to catch any conversation that might be passing between Ruff and Snakes. As Cliff's call to Burbank had indicated, The Shadow's agent had not overheard the preliminary talk between the gangsters. Nevertheless, Cliff knew that two such ruffians as Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey could not be in this vicinity for other than a doubtful purpose.
A low whistle sounded near the sedan. Cliff Marsland barely caught its sound. He looked about, straining his eyes toward the street.
In that glance, Cliff glimpsed Snakes Blakey. Then, in answer to the sneaky mobster's call, three men leaped from the cover of a house beyond the sidewalk. They caught Cliff Marsland unaware. The Shadow's redoubtable agent went down under unexpected odds that were too great for him.
The quickness of the encounter was fortunate. These attackers were armed. They would not have hesitated to use their guns if necessary. Cliff was a natural fighter, who would sooner risk death than surrender to such foemen. A swinging hand, however, clipped Cliff a sidelong blow with a revolver.
Stunn
ed, The Shadow's agent offered no resistance. He was shoved, unconscious, into the waiting automobile.
GOWDY clambered to the wheel, expecting Ruff Shefflin to order him to drive away. It was then that an interruption came. Snakes Blakey appeared beside the car and spoke in a low tone to the gang leader.
"Stick here, Gowdy," ordered Ruff, after he had heard what Snakes had to say. "You Jake—and Caulkey—wait back where you were. There's a guy coming out of the apartment building. Get him.
Know the sign?"
"A gray mark on his sleeve."
"You can see it when he reaches the light," declared Ruff. "Bring him along, too—with this bird."
So saying, the gang leader clambered out of the sedan. He joined Snakes. The two walked away.
Gowdy remained at the wheel; Jake and Caulkey moved back to the house where they had watched for Cliff Marsland, and had responded to the signal given by Snakes.
At the corner, Snakes motioned Ruff into a waiting taxi. He gave an order to the driver. As the car rolled downtown, Ruff began to speak inquiringly to his companion. Important though Ruff Shefflin was as a gang leader, he took orders from this sneaky mobster, Snakes Blakey, who represented Gray Fist.
"Where are we going?" questioned Ruff.
"You're going to scare up the mob," chuckled Snakes. "You remember those emergency orders I told you to be ready for? Well—I think you're going to get them to-night."
"You mean on account of this guy we grabbed?"
"On his account—and maybe more. Listen, Ruff—I watched the guy telephoning, along with Jake and Caulkey. They didn't see what I saw."
"What was that?"
"Maybe you'll know later." Snakes was cryptic in his snarl. "Maybe - later; I've got work to do, for Gray Fist. You'll have plenty, too, I figure. You be down at the hide-out in the Tenth Avenue garage, where you've got Varden. You'll hear from me there."
"O.K.," returned Ruff somewhat reluctantly.
Snakes ordered the cab to stop. He stepped out on the sidewalk, near the corner of Fifty-eighth and Seventh Avenue. Ruff Shefflin barked a new destination to the driver. The cab rolled along.
As a minion of Gray Fist, Ruff Shefflin could make no protest to Snakes Blakey's guarded statements.
The gang leader shrugged his shoulders as he rode southward. His mind reverted to facts that he knew; that one prisoner was already in the sedan up by the Mandrilla; that another might soon be in the bag.
Perhaps it was the actual passage of events that gave Ruff Shefflin such ideas. For while the mob leader was still riding in his cab, Harry Vincent was coming from the automatic elevator in the apartment house where Ruggles Preston lived.
HARRY had learned nothing in his visit to the lawyer. He had discussed legal matters, had artfully turned the talk to tariffs, and thus to importing. He had heard Ruggles Preston mention that he had a friend named Worth Varden who was an importer.
Nevertheless, Harry, when he reached the lobby, decided to put in a call to Burbank. He saw a telephone booth in an isolated corner. He entered it and made his call. In response to Burbank's quiet query, Harry Vincent reported no results.
Something prompted him, however, to give a brief list of Varden's friends. He also mentioned that he was at the Mandrilla Apartments, and that he would prepare a complete report for Rutledge Mann when he reached the Metrolite Hotel.
This duty done, Harry sauntered through the lobby. As he went into the revolving door, he caught the reflection of his overcoat in one of the glass panels. He noticed a mark upon his sleeve, near the shoulder.
It looked like chalk—a grayish chalk—when Harry examined the mark in the light beneath the marquee of the apartment house. Harry brushed at it as he walked along. He wondered where the mark had come from. He remembered that he had given his hat and coat to Ruggles Preston; that the lawyer had placed both in a closet, and had later brought them out.
Harry was still brushing at the mark as he neared a parked and darkened sedan by the curb. He stopped a moment by a light just beyond the car, and brushed vigorously at the mark on his overcoat. Then, instinctively, Harry turned.
Two men were leaping from the steps of a house, less than a dozen feet away. As Harry swung to meet the oncomers, he threw himself off guard. The pair of thugs landed upon him with one accord.
Down went Harry Vincent. His swinging fist caught one ruffian in the face. Then Harry's head whacked against the lamp-post. With a groan, the young man lost a hold that he had gained upon the second enemy.
Jake and Caulkey pounced upon the man whom luck had aided them to overpower. With speed, they tumbled Harry Vincent's body into the door of the sedan, which Gowdy opened for them. Jake and Caulkey clambered into the car. Gowdy started the motor.
The gangsters in the rear leaned with drawn revolvers above the forms of the two men whom they had captured from ambush, under the orders received from Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey. Cliff Marsland still lay motionless; Harry Vincent was groggy.
The sedan headed westward toward Tenth Avenue. Jake and Caulkey growled and chuckled, while Gowdy drove in silence. The two gorillas were proud of their work to-night. They had captured a pair of men whom they had been set to get.
Yet neither Jake nor Caulkey knew that these prisoners were agents of The Shadow. For that matter, Ruff Shefflin, their leader, was not cognizant of the fact.
There was only one, to-night, who had been shrewd enough to even guess in whose service Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent might be working. That one was Snakes Blakey, the crafty mobster who acted as Gray Fist's agent in the underworld.
Through Snakes Blakey, Gray Fist had struck the first blow against The Shadow's cause!
CHAPTER VII. THE HOME THRUST
A FEW hours after the capture of The Shadow's agents, a large limousine pulled up in front of a Manhattan night club. A tall, dignified man spied the car from the doorway of the club. A smile appeared upon his lips—thin lips beneath an aquiline nose. Sharp eyes sparkled as the gentleman stepped out to the car.
The chauffeur had reached the curb. He opened the door of the limousine, and allowed the waiting person to step in. As he closed the door, the chauffeur questioned the destination.
"Twenty-third Street," the passenger replied. "You can take the car home from there, Stanley. I expect to remain in town to-night."
"Very well, Mr. Cranston."
Stanley climbed into the front seat. He swung the limousine around a corner, and headed for the destination which his master had given.
To Stanley, his employer, Lamont Cranston, was a most unusual personage. Cranston was reputed to be a multimillionaire. He lived in a large home in New Jersey. He came in and out of New York frequently, when he was living at home.
His usual destination was the Cobalt Club; on other occasions, Cranston simply ordered Stanley to let him off at Twenty-third Street. Sometimes, however, Cranston chose most remarkable places. The night club, for instance, was an unusual one. It was a spot where the elite of the underworld were apt to be found—scarcely a place which a gentleman of Lamont Cranston's discrimination would frequent.
Little did Stanley realize that the personality of Lamont Cranston was merely one which his master chose to adopt as a mask for his real identity. This quiet, leisurely multimillionaire was one who lived a much more exciting life than Stanley supposed. The personage who posed as Lamont Cranston; the being who was at this moment riding in the darkness of the limousine was none other than The Shadow!
While Stanley's eyes were watching ahead, a silent motion was going on in the back seat. From a suitcase which had been left there, black garments were coming forth, drawn by swift-moving hands. As the limousine neared Twenty-third Street, those garments were donned. A spectral, black-garbed being sat shrouded in the rear of the car. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.
The Shadow had been investigating on his own to-night. He had chosen the glittering night club as a place where much might be secretly learned concerning doings in the
underworld. He had sought to listen in on any talks which might refer to the missing racketeer, Seth Cowry.
The Shadow's work had brought no results. Hence The Shadow was on his way to tap other sources of information. A secluded office in a dilapidated Twenty-third Street building served as a spot where Rutledge Mann put in reports from The Shadow's agents. That was to be the first stopping point.
THE limousine slowed on Twenty-third Street. Stanley was not quite sure where his master wished to leave the car. While the chauffeur waited some word from the rear seat, the door of the limousine opened softly. A mass of darkness poised upon the step; then dropped from the car while the door silently closed.
Stanley continued for half a block; then stopped. He looked into the rear seat, switched on the light, and stared blankly. His master had left the car! Shaking his head, Stanley drove on. He headed homeward, wondering.
He realized that he had seen the result of another of his master's eccentricities. The employer whom Stanley knew as Lamont Cranston had a habit of appearing and disappearing in mysterious fashion.
Passing blackness on the sidewalk was the only token of The Shadow's presence after the master of darkness had stepped from the limousine. The blackness faded. The Shadow had merged with the front surface of a scarred-walled building. After that, the passage of the mysterious traveler was untraceable.
Such was the way of The Shadow. His destination was the unknown sanctum wherein he laid his plans for fighting crime. His course to that point could not be followed. Half an hour after his disappearance, The Shadow manifested his presence within the walls of his secret room.
The click of a switch sounded amid darkness. Bluish light glared upon The Shadow's polished table.
White hands—one with its sparkling girasol—appeared and opened an envelope. A report fell upon the table.
The Shadow scanned the lines. The writing faded. This report had come from Clyde Burke, through Rutledge Mann. The Classic reporter had been keeping tabs on Joe Cardona. So far, the detective had made no new move.
Gray Fist s-48 Page 4
