Though Hawkeye lacked Cliff’s gentlemanly appearance, he was not out of his element. For the Club Cadilly had never been patronized by the elite. Its chief customers were characters of underworld connections — all above the level of ordinary crooks, but none of real social background.
Cliff had taken a seat on one side of the night Club’s floor. Hawkeye did not approach him. Instead, the second agent seated himself fully thirty feet away. Cliff looked almost aristocratic in his evening garb; Hawkeye was incongruous in the tuxedo that he had hired. No one would have recognized the pair as pals.
Filtering among the tuxedoed rabble were men of better appearance. Close observation of their countenance, however, showed marks of dissipation. They were rogues who had found the Club Cadilly to their liking. The attraction that had brought them here was located beyond a curtained archway, through which these respectable-looking customers stalked one by one.
Cliff, after spotting Hawkeye’s arrival, decided to follow the others who had gone through the arch. Leaving his table, he took that path and came to a loopholed door at the end of a corridor past the curtains. Cliff knocked.
The loophole opened. An eye surveyed Cliff’s face. The door unbolted.
“Hello, Cliff!” greeted a fat-faced guard whose rumpled tuxedo looked two sizes too small. “Say, I wondered who was trying to crash dis gate. Ain’t you wise to the knock? Ain’t you never been here before?”
“No,” chuckled Cliff, with a shake of his head. “But I figured that whoever was lookout would know me. I was right, wasn’t I, Beef?”
“Sure t’ing,” rejoined the fat-faced fellow. “Any guy dat knows his onions knows dat Cliff Marsland’s in de know. You get by widout no stallin’, on any gate I’m watchin’.”
“Thanks,” said Cliff, dryly. “Listen, Beef: I’m here to see Luke Cardiff. Where will I find him?”
“Go t’rough de gamblin’ joint. Pick de door over past de table where dey’re playin’ chuck-a-luck. If any mug asks where you’re goin’, tell him you’re a friend of Mr. Carney. Dat’s de password.”
Cliff nodded. “Beef” rapped at a second door; it was opened by another rowdy who also recognized Cliff. The Shadow’s agent strolled into a large gambling room. The place was half filled, with roulette and faro tables going, while men along the walls were dropping quarters and half dollars into slot machines.
The chuck-a-luck table had not yet opened. Cliff received no challenge as he passed it. He found the door that Beef had mentioned and rapped upon it. A gruff voice ordered him to enter. Cliff went into a little office, where a gawky, long-jawed man was going over books at a desk.
THE fellow showed a gold-toothed grin as he recognized Cliff Marsland. The man at the desk was Luke Cardiff, proprietor of the Club Cadilly. The restaurant with its floor show was a blind for the gambling casino that Luke had recently opened.
Cliff seated himself opposite Luke. The proprietor offered his visitor a cigar; then waited for Cliff to speak. Luke knew that Cliff had a rep in the badlands. A visit from someone so closely in the know promised to be important.
“Say, Luke,” began Cliff, in an indifferent tone, “have you seen Matt Theblaw lately?”
“No,” acknowledged Luke. “What’s the matter? Somebody gunning for Matt? He was an old pal of mine; if any rats are making trouble for him, I’ll be glad to know it.”
“You and Matt were pretty close, weren’t you?”
“Sure. But Matt knew a lot of other guys, too.”
“Stinger Lacey for instance.”
Luke’s eyes opened. The underworld had been talking about Stinger’s demise. Rumor had it that the mob leader had succumbed following a battle with The Shadow. But no other names had been mentioned in connection.
“You mean Stinger was working for Matt?” demanded Luke.
“I know he was,” returned Cliff. “That’s why Stinger built his mob — on Matt’s account.”
“Where’d you get that dope?”
“Straight from Stinger. The night before he took the bump.”
Luke Cardiff whistled.
“Here’s the lay, Luke,” asserted Cliff. “Matt told Stinger to build up a crew. Stinger did; but it wasn’t enough. Matt wanted a second outfit to work with the first. But he was playing straight with Stinger, see?”
“That’s the way Matt would work,” acknowledged Luke.
“So he told Stinger to get a good guy for the new mob,” continued Cliff, smoothly framing his story as he went along. “Stinger picked me. He told me Matt was in back of the deal. I was to get my own gorillas and team up through Stinger.”
Luke nodded his understanding.
“Then Stinger got his,” declared Cliff sourly. “What’s more, it came so quick after he’d talked with me that he couldn’t have had a chance to wise Matt up to it that he’d picked me.”
“Which leaves you out in the cold,” remarked Luke.
“That’s it,” stated Cliff, “with a bunch of swell gorillas itching to go to work. I want Matt to know where I stood with Stinger. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. You’re the one guy who was ever really in as partner with Matt Theblaw.”
LUKE nodded as he considered. Cliff had stated a known fact. Matt Theblaw and Luke Cardiff had once been termed the Siamese twins of mobland. They had maneuvered rackets, with mob leaders on their payroll. But they had wisely dropped their activities at a time when the going became too hot.
“We worked together, Matt and I,” acknowledged Luke, slowly. “Made some good deals between us. We split because we were wise. What Matt’s pulled since, I don’t know. This gambling joint’s my gravy right at present; and I’m working it alone.”
“I know that,” agreed Cliff, casually. “All I was figuring, Luke, was that you might have some way of passing word to Matt. Whatever he’s working has got big dough in it. Stinger wised me to that. With Stinger out, it’s a cinch that Matt needs me more than he did before.”
“I get you,” nodded Luke. “You’d like to know who Matt would pick now that Stinger’s gone. So you could see the bird and tell him how close you were to Stinger.”
“Sure,” asserted Cliff. “You’ve got the idea, Luke. Maybe you know who Matt would be picking.”
Luke became thoughtful. Cliff knew that he was recalling old names, going down a list, just as if he and Matt were still paired in effort, with big crime as their stake. At last Luke spoke.
“I’ll tell you the guy,” he declared, slowly. “Maybe you know him already. He’s the next best bet to Stinger, to do the mob work Matt would want: Loco Zorgin. He hangs out down at the Black Ship.”
“Loco Zorgin,” repeated Cliff with a nod. “Sure, I know him. I think I’ll ankle down there and look him up. Thanks for the tip, Luke. I’ll let you know how I make out.”
That ended the conversation. A handshake concluded the discussion; Cliff left the office and went out through the gambling joint. He whacked Beef on the back; then, as the entrance closed behind him, Cliff thrust his right hand into his coat pocket.
Quickly, he used the stub of a pencil to write terse words on a tiny pad. Plucking off the written sheet, Cliff rolled it into a pellet and brought it out between his fingers. Strolling through the place, he passed Hawkeye’s table. There, Cliff paused to bring a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
The pellet dropped from Cliff’s fingers as he pocketed the pack. Hawkeye saw it; he watched Cliff light a cigarette and continue out. Hawkeye shifted and let his hand rest on the pellet, which had fallen on the table. A few minutes later, he also decided to leave the Club Cadilly.
Outside, Hawkeye unrolled the pellet and read the words: “The Black Ship — Loco Zorgin.”