There was no one in the hallway. Vincent listened at the door of the next room, but heard no sound. That didn’t change the instructions, however.
It was up to him to locate the man who had room 1417, and to watch that person’s activities. The best thing to do was wait and listen.
He went back in his own room and left the door ajar; then stretched out on the bed and began to read the morning paper.
CHAPTER III
THE MAN IN THE NEXT ROOM
Time was becoming rather boring to Harry Vincent. It was three o’clock in the afternoon; he knew this, because at noon a bell boy had arrived with a package from a famous jeweler that contained a fine gold watch and chain.
Vincent had smiled when he had opened the package, because the gift from his strange benefactor was, in a way, a confirmation and reminder of the message that had come over the telephone.
But now, when the minutes had begun to lag, he wondered if his plan of waiting was all that was expected of him. He had eaten a hearty breakfast, but was beginning to wonder about having lunch sent up to the room.
Then he heard the footsteps.
The door to the hall was still ajar, and he had heard several persons go along corridor. But there was something different in the walk of whomever was now approaching, for these footsteps seemed quick and nervous - and once they had hesitated.
Vincent stepped to the door of his room. The door opened inward, and the end of it was away from the next room. By putting his eye close to the opening, Vincent could see a short distance down the hall.
As he took this position he heard the footsteps hesitate again; a moment later he saw the form of a man of medium height, who stopped directly in front of Room 1417. The man was looking over his shoulder down the hallway, and in his hand he held a key. Apparently satisfied that no one was in sight, he quickly thrust the key into the door and fumbled with the lock.
Vincent was able to study his profile in the few seconds the man required to unlock the door. The face was rather paunchy and featureless, and Vincent figured the age of the man as close to fifty years.
When the door of the next room had closed, Vincent began to speculate. There was nothing about the man’s appearance that could be classed as unusual. He seemed to be of the veteran salesman type, one who might have been on the road for many years.
But unquestionably the fellow was anxious not to be seen. He might be an intruder, entering the room while the occupant was away; but it was more probable that he was the man whom Vincent had been sent to watch.
Another hour went by; then the door of the next room was opened, and what seemed to be the same footsteps went down the hall. Vincent slipped into his hat and coat, and giving the man time to reach the turn that led to the elevator, he followed, rapidly and quietly. He was just quick enough to catch the elevator, and he found himself right beside his quarry.
The man walked hurriedly through the lobby, Vincent sauntering after him. But, outside, the middle-aged chap showed surprising activity and dashed for the only cab that was in front of the hotel.
Vincent caught the instructions to the driver; the man called “Pennsylvania Station”; but it was two minutes before Vincent could hail a second cab with instructions to drive to the same destination. Urging his driver to hurry, he reached the terminal in such good time that he was positive he could not be far behind the man he was trailing.
Vincent had seen nothing of the other cab on the way; and now he spent a good half hour watching the various train gates, in futile hope of seeing his man. Finally he returned to the hotel and had the unexpected sensation of observing the missing man comfortably seated in an armchair reading an evening paper, as though he had been planted there all the time. Disgusted, Vincent very humanly gave up his fruitless watching, and went in the hotel restaurant to order dinner.
The meal was a good one - the best Vincent had eaten in months - but he did not enjoy it. He realized that he had been hoaxed; that the man he followed had either changed his destination or had slipped by in the crowded station. Worst of all, the fellow might have spotted him while he was watching the train gates.
Vincent was sure now that there must be some good reason for watching the man, but he argued that it would be foolish to follow him immediately after his hopeless failure. In fact, he began to forget his duty as his mind dwelt upon the stranger of the night before.
“Funny how that fellow disappeared,” he mused. “He went like a shadow; just like a shadow. That’s a good name for him - The Shadow! I’ll remember that.”
Vincent finished his dessert, still speculating on the strange personality who was now fixed in his mind. But when he reentered the lobby, he realized that he had spent too much time in the dining room. The middle-aged man was no longer present.
Vincent mentally chided himself. Evidently it was his duty to be something of a detective. So far he had proven himself totally lacking in that ability. Then it occurred to him that he could at least discover the identity of the man he was supposed to watch. So he strolled to the desk, intending to open conversation with the clerk.
He began with a natural question, the while scanning the mail boxes attentively.
“Anything in 1419?” Vincent asked.
In reply, the clerk drew a letter from a pigeonhole and handed it to him.
This was a surprise. He had not expected mail. The envelope explained away Vincent’s surprise. It was addressed to R. J. Scanlon, and bore a return address and postmark which showed that the missive had come from San Francisco. Vincent motioned to the clerk.
“Not my letter,” he said.
The clerk looked at the address, then turned and shoved the envelope into another pigeonhole.
“My mistake,” he said. “I gave you the mail for 1417. There’s nothing in your box.”
Vincent walked away with a smile. The clerk’s mistake had given him the information he needed. On second thought, Vincent was glad he had not quizzed the clerk about the man in 1417, and thereby made himself unduly conspicuous.
He bought a few magazines and rode up on the elevator. There was no light showing through the partly-opened transom of Room 1417.
“All right, Mr. Scanlon,” Vincent mused, as he sat in his room and began to read. “I’ll be up and waiting when you come in tonight. Have a good time while you’re out.”
The man in the next room came in before midnight. Vincent heard the transom slam shut after the door of Scanlon’s room had been closed.
“I’ll remember that,” he thought. “This chap worries about his transom being open.”
The next morning began another vigil. There was no communicating door between the two rooms, so Vincent was forced to reconnoiter in the hallway to make sure that the man had not gone out. He heard a few slight sounds, and, satisfied that Scanlon was still on hand, he waited patiently, leaving his own door slightly ajar.
Scanlon went out at half past ten. Vincent did not follow him immediately this time. He waited long enough to take another elevator downstairs. In the lobby, he went through the motions of busying himself at the magazine rack, while he kept on the lookout for his man. Vincent finally spotted him going through the revolving door, and followed a short distance behind.
Scanlon entered a building on Broadway. Vincent, noting that there was only one entrance, waited patiently on the street.
It was nearly noon when the middle-aged man reappeared. He went into a restaurant, and Vincent followed, seating himself at a distant table.
He trailed Scanlon through an uneventful afternoon always at a distance. Vincent began to be surprised at the way he could identify the man. He could give Scanlon a full block lead, and spot him crossing a street.
It was not difficult to do this because of the peculiar characteristics the man displayed. His quick, nervous steps would stop at intervals, while he cast a furtive glance backward.
“This fellow is surely worried,” thought Vincent. “My mysterious benefactor is not the only one w
ho’s in this game. Somebody else is after him, I’ll bet a derby.”
Late in the afternoon, Scanlon slipped into a motion picture theater. Vincent, tired with the aimless chase, was tempted to do likewise; but he decided that the man might be playing some ruse. In this he was evidently wrong, for he waited more than two hours before Scanlon again appeared.
“No percentage in this,” mumbled Vincent as his quarry turned up Broadway. “He’s wandered everywhere with no purpose, and now we’re back near the hotel. But I’ll stick with him. He couldn’t be so aimless without having some pur - Ah! That looks suspicious.”
A hard-faced man with a black mustache had popped suddenly from the obscurity of an orangeade stand. It was at the corner upon which the Metrolite Hotel was located, and Vincent realized that the fellow had held a commanding view of the entrance to the hotel.
The newcomer was short and stocky, and wore a mixed brown overcoat. Vincent’s first suspicion was hardly more than a hunch, but after he watched the actions of the man for a few minutes, he was solidly convinced that he, too, was watching Scanlon.
To put his theory to the test, Vincent neglected Scanlon for the moment, and centered all his attention upon the man in the brown overcoat, who dodged artfully in and out of the crowd and was a difficult quarry, indeed.
After fifteen minutes of further wandering, Vincent became exultant when he again saw Scanlon, turning into a restaurant, half a block ahead. By following the man in the overcoat, he had kept Scanlon in range also!
The stocky, mustached individual entered the restaurant. Vincent followed and found a table in the corner. He was within twenty feet of Scanlon, but was almost obscured from view by a rack which held overcoats.
He ordered dinner and waited. For a while he saw nothing of the man with the brown overcoat; then Vincent spotted him, walking across the floor. He had taken off his coat and now appeared in a dark-blue suit.
“By George!” exclaimed Vincent softly. “He’s sitting down at the same table with Scanlon! I’ll listen in on this.”
Vincent moved his head toward the side of the coat rack, and caught the conversation.
“Well, well,” began the man with the mustache, whose thick dark hair had become a noticeable characteristic, since he had removed his hat.
Scanlon half jumped from his chair. Vincent caught sight of the man’s startled eyes. Plainly Scanlon did not relish the other’s intrusion.
“You don’t seem to remember me,” continued the dark-haired man.
“I don’t,” replied Scanlon, somewhat gruffly. It was the first time Vincent had heard his voice, and it sounded harsh and grating.
“You’re Bob Scanlon, aren’t you?” asked the dark-haired man pleasantly. “Shoe salesman from Frisco?”
“That’s right,” admitted Scanlon.
“You don’t remember me, then?”
“No.”
“Steve Cronin, from Boston,” said the dark-haired man glibly. “Used to sell shoes myself. Met you at the convention in Chicago, five years ago. Out of the game now. Been here in New York four years. Remember you, though. Good time we had out there.”
He held out his hand, which Scanlon shook rather reluctantly.
“Don’t mind my eating with you?” persisted the man who called himself Steve Cronin.
“Guess not”, grunted Scanlon. “I suppose I met you in Chicago all right. Hard to remember all the shoe men I meet.”
“I’ve got a good memory,” answered Cronin. “I can tell just where I’ve met a fellow and just when. Funny, isn’t it, that I should happen to see you come walking in a restaurant this way?”
Vincent smiled to himself. Cronin had seen Scanlon going in not coming in.
The talk drifted to shoes. Cronin was glib and talkative, but evasive. Vincent noted that the man said very little that was definite. Scanlon grunted, and merely answered questions occasionally.
When the meal was finished, the man with the mustache rose first.
“I have an appointment,” he said, looking at his watch. “See you later, old man.”
With that he left the restaurant. Scanlon followed five minutes later, and started up a side street. Vincent was not far behind, but he kept on the opposite sidewalk. He noted that Scanlon’s actions were more nervous than ever.
When the San Francisco shoe salesman turned up one of the avenues, and increased his pace, Vincent had a hunch that proved to be a good one.
“This bird is doubled back to the hotel,” he said to himself. “He’s taking a long walk to do it because he wants to be sure that Cronin isn’t after him. Furthermore, he doesn’t want Cronin to know where he is staying. But Cronin does know, and he’s too wise to trail Scanlon. So I’ll be wise, too.”
He waited until the shoe salesman was nearly a block ahead. Then he called a cab and rode to the Metrolite. He went up in the elevator, convinced that within twenty minutes the occupant of 1417 would be back in his room.
CHAPTER IV
A BOLD MURDER
In the darkness of his room, Vincent sat in a chair by the door. A thin crack enabled him to view the lighted hallway; a casual passer would not have noticed that his door was not entirely closed.
Five minutes had elapsed since his return, and those minutes had seemed like hours. For he knew that something was definitely in the wind.
Footsteps came softly down the corridor. It was not Scanlon; Vincent could tell that by the sound. Yet the steps were coming on, and unless they passed by and turned the short hallway to the left, it seemed logical that they were bound for the room next to his own.
Vincent suppressed a low whistle as the man came into his limited view. It was none other than Steve Cronin!
The man with the mustache threw a glance toward the darkened transom of Scanlon’s room, and Vincent could see his lips curl in an ugly grin that showed a tusk-like tooth. Cronin’s coat was thrown back and his hands were thrust roughly in his vest pockets.
“A fine specimen of humanity,” thought Vincent. “Looks like a wolf and probably acts like one. But at heart he’s yellow; I can tell that.”
Satisfied with his inspection of Scanlon’s doorway, the stocky man walked along the hall and turned the corner. He was out of sight of 1417; but near enough to appear at an instant’s notice.
Vincent breathed quietly as he waited. On no account must he betray his presence. Action was here, or would be, upon Scanlon’s return. Perhaps the shoe salesman, with all his appearance of fear, would be a worthy match for the ill-visaged Cronin.
Ten more minutes went by; endless minutes that held Vincent on edge. Then came the quick tap-tap of Scanlon’s footsteps with two or three of the familiar pauses; then the man was at the door of his room, the sound of his rapid breathing hissing in Vincent’s ears.
The key turned in the lock, then Vincent’s view was momentarily blocked as Cronin came by the crack of the doorway. He had moved noiselessly, and now his voice spoke low but sharply.
“Scanlon!”
Vincent could not see the shoe salesman, for the man had already started into his room. But he could hear the gasp that came from him.
“What do you want?”
The gruff voice, which quavered in a pitiful manner, came from Scanlon.
“I want to talk with you,” said Steve Cronin in an amiable tone. “I came up here to see you.”
“I thought you had an appointment.”
“I kept it. The man was not there to meet me.”
“How did you know I was stopping here?”
“You told me.”
“I did not.” There was a pause. The two were close together in Scanlon’s doorway, out of Vincent’s view. Steve Cronin broke the silence.
“We’re old friends, Scanlon,” he said. “I’m glad to see you again. You told me you were staying here; but you probably forgot you mentioned it. I think I can help you make some sales. I’ll only be with you a few minutes.”
“I don’t need your help,” replied Scanlon. His
voice was firm again.
Vincent smiled despite the tension. Steve Cronin, wolf though he might be, seemed due to meet a fighting lamb.
“Why argue here in the corridor?” said Cronin suavely.
“I don’t like you, that’s why,” answered Scanlon.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have my reasons. You can go along. I don’t want to be bothered with you.”
“That’s just why I’ll stay. I’ll find out why you don’t like me.”
Vincent heard a hurried sound. Scanlon was trying to slam the door in Steve Cronin’s face.
“Easy now, Scanlon”, came the smooth words of Steve Cronin. “Easy now. I’m coming in.”
The door slammed, and Vincent heard hurried mumbled words. He stepped softly into the hallway.
Scanlon’s transom was still partly opened. The men were talking excitedly, but in low voices. Vincent could not catch their words. Still he listened, one hand reaching toward the door of his own room, his eyes watching down the corridor.
The voices became less excited. They were low and virtually inaudible. Something was being discussed between the two men, and Vincent - of all the persons in the great hotel - was the only one who knew of it.
The men must have approached the door, for Vincent could hear their voices despite the quiet tones. Scanlon was speaking.
“All right, Cronin - if that’s your name - tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want, Scanlon. I want the disk.”
“What disk? Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Chinese disk. The coin. You have it.”
“I don’t understand you, Cronin.”
“You know what I’m asking for. Be reasonable. I’ll buy it. Name your price.”
Scanlon’s reply was a mumble. The voices lessened, and Vincent could hear nothing. He tiptoed back into his own room; there he listened at the window. The night was not cold; the maid probably left the sash raised in Scanlon’s room. Yet no sound came from the room next door.
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