HALF an hour afterward, both Cliff and Hawkeye were in the underworld dive known as the Black Ship. An underground hangout, this joint was one of the crossroads of the underworld. At different tables in the smoke-filled dive, both of The Shadow’s agents were keeping their ears open.
Hawkeye had picked a spot near two sweatered mobsters. The pair were discoursing, in low tones, over a bottle of grog. Hawkeye had recognized them as ruffians who might be torpedoes in the employ of “Loco” Zorgin. As he listened, his wiry body hunched at his own table, Hawkeye realized that his conjecture was correct.
“Loco didn’t want us hookin’ up with the rest of the outfit, see?” One thug was talking to the other. “Us watchin’ that house was somethin’ he needed done. But there was the chance that some harness bull might’ve spotted us.”
“Sure,” came the reply. “An’ if th’ bull had tipped some dick to it, we’d have been trailed back to th’ outfit. Sure, I get it. Loco was wise.”
“The mob’s keepin’ in between the bank an’ the house we was at,” added the first speaker. “Comin’ up there with Loco. It don’t matter to us what’s up. Loco’s the guy that’s doin’ the job.”
“Yeah,” was the response, “but it’s a tough one. Say — that Colonnade Trust Company ain’t no easy-lookin’ joint. If Loco busts into it, he’ll be doin’ somethin’.”
“Loco ain’t bustin’ in; he’s coverin’. But lay off the gab. It ain’t good to talk too much nowhere. Not even in this joint. You can’t tell where stoolies are planted.”
The conversation ended. Warily, Hawkeye watched the torpedoes. He gave them five minutes, while they kept downing their grog. Then Hawkeye arose and shuffled from the Black Ship. Outside, he made for a near-by alleyway.
Five minutes more. Someone approached. Hawkeye recognized the step. He gave a whisper. It was Cliff Marsland. The first agent had seen the second leave the Black Ship. Cliff had stalled a few minutes before following.
Hawkeye whispered the news that he had heard. It was sufficient. Mention of the Colonnade Trust Company told where crime was due.
Cliff and Hawkeye made their way together from the alley. They separated; Cliff, with Hawkeye trailing, was heading for the nearest telephone.
Word to Burbank. Prompt information for The Shadow. Following the lead that had been given him, Cliff, with Hawkeye’s aid, had achieved immediate results. Luke Cardiff had named Loco Zorgin. Minions of the latter had talked of the mob leader’s doings.
Crime was already in the making — crime that could be traced to Matt Theblaw, through him to professor Jark and the disintegrating ray. The time had already arrived for The Shadow to spring a counter thrust.
CHAPTER XIII
CRIME COMES THROUGH
CLIFF MARSLAND, reporting to The Shadow, knew that crime was in the making. How close it was to completion, Cliff had not guessed.
For at the very time that Cliff had started to call Burbank, a group of men were participating in a most remarkable scene, close by the foundation of the big building which housed the wealthy Colonnade Trust Company.
The men where crouched in a circular tunnel that measured five feet in diameter. Extending from the cellar of a vacant house, the tribe had been burrowing for a distance of thirty feet. Along the floor of the tunnel ran an insulated wire which hooked with a mechanism at the inner end.
There, a five-foot concave bowl was faced against solid concrete. The glow of burning light showed from its rim. A singing buzz was coming from the device, with occasional crackles. Matt Theblaw, close against the back of the machine, was pressing it forward in a slow, regular manner, while Digger Wight and others watched him in the dim glow.
The disintegrating ray was eating through the stone foundations of the Colonnade Trust building. Concrete was melting away as if before a sand blast. But Professor Jark’s invention was smoother and more efficient than any old-type device. It conquered steel and other metals as effectively as it withered rock.
“We’re there,” came Matt’s growled announcement, heard despite the crackles of the ray. “Move back — all of you.”
He clicked a switch. The glare of the ray machine flickered into oblivion. Matt swung the shallow bowl sidewise and drew the base of the machine toward him.
“Flashlights,” he ordered in the darkness.
Glimmers came. Digger and Louie aided in pulling the machine edgewise back through the tunnel. Matt groped through to the finish of the cavity; then clicked his own flashlight. He chuckled as he saw the interior of a huge vault. He had picked the right goal.
Crooks went to work at Matt’s order. In and out, in and out, they rifled the contents of the nest to which they had penetrated. Stacks of currency, piles of negotiable securities, boxes of silver coin constituted their spoils.
The Colonnade Trust Company had connections with banks that did a large business in foreign markets. Its vault — the one that Matt had reached — was used to store large quantities of foreign as well as domestic currency. The crooks were making a haul that meant huge profits.
Dragging boxes as they worked with speed, Matt’s picked henchmen brought the spoils into the cellar of the empty house from which the tunneling had begun. Digger was in charge there; he had dismantled the ray machine and boxed it. Matt ordered his crew to carry the boxed machine up with the swag. The workers were to load cars that were parked on streets close by.
DIGGER was engaged in a new task. The short crook had gained his nickname because of his ability to carve his way through barriers. Tonight’s job was one that he could not possibly have accomplished; but it was his work to make it look as though some force other than the ray had done the trick.
Skillfully, Digger began planting dynamite charges all the way through the tunnel, from the vault back to the cellar of the house. He had accomplished this by the time the last boxes were gone. Setting a time fuse, Digger gave the word that he was ready.
“This way, Digger,” ordered Matt, as they reached the ground floor above the cellar. “We’re going out by the front door. So’s I can pass the tip-off to Loco.”
The swag carriers had taken a rear exit. The entire terrain about this vacant house was under guard. As Matt and Digger emerged from the front door, they stepped to a secluded street, where the whiteness of the Colonnade Trust building showed cater-cornered from where they stood.
A man shouldered up to the doorway. It was Loco. Matt spoke in an undertone. This was the word for the cover-up crew to spread. No more watchers were needed between the old house and the bank building.
“We’ll be clear inside of ten minutes,” informed Matt, “but you won’t have to wait that long. Just hold it for a couple of minutes after the soup blows. That’s going to bring the bulls. Give them a chance to spot some of the cars. Lead them a phony chase, with a good start.”
“That’s all fixed, Matt,” assured Loco. “Leave it to me. The whole crew’s posted. But they’ll still be watching out until the blow-off comes.”
Long and lanky, Loco sidled away from the house. Matt nudged Digger. Together they walked along until they reached a passage between two houses. Moving through, they came to a rear street, where three cars were waiting. Matt and Digger each boarded a different vehicle.
The caravan started. With lights dimmed, the cars were moving out into an avenue, there to take up a northward course, increasing speed as they cleared this district. Matt had deliberately planned for the fireworks to start soon after the get-away.
That was because he did not want Loco’s crew lingering longer than was necessary. Rather than figure half an hour for the swag bearers to make distance, he had counted on only ten minutes. To draw in the police and to give them a blind trail of mobster cars, was the idea that Matt had picked as best.