“Snapped it, eh, Luke?”
“You bet he did, Cully. But it’s time to be moving. Got your man posted at the pool room?”
“Sure thing.”
“All right. Let’s travel.”
SOME twenty minutes after he had left the Club Cadilly, Cliff arrived near Crazy Tochler’s pool room. The lights of the Bowery were gleaming from the nearest corner. Elevated trains were rumbling by as Cliff approached.
Seeing three loafers outside the pool room, Cliff paused almost between them as he lighted a cigarette. Then, as he thrust his cigarette pack back into his pocket, he let a coin drop to the sidewalk.
Cliff had chosen a bright quarter dollar. The coin made a glimmering splotch as it hit the cement. As it bounced, one of the loiterers pounced forward and planted his foot on it. Stooping, the fellow picked up the coin. He turned to Cliff.
“Here’s your two bits.”
“Two bits?” Cliff feigned puzzlement as he took the coin. “I thought it was a dime.”
The other made no reply. Turning, he slouched toward the Bowery. Cliff strolled in the same direction. One look at the face of the fellow had told Cliff that this must be his man. He was obviously a member of some mob; although Cliff had never encountered him previously.
Across the street, a solitary observer had witnessed the meeting. This was Hawkeye. The little spotter had been at the Club Cadilly; he had received a scrawled pellet in the usual fashion which Cliff had left.
Hawkeye had put in a report to Burbank; then he had hurried hither to cover up. Cliff had not dallied long in keeping the rendezvous; but he had allowed sufficient time for Hawkeye to get posted.
Hawkeye waited until Cliff and the other man had reached the Bowery. He watched the direction that they took; then trailed. On the Bowery, he could spot them well ahead. Hawkeye allowed three blocks leeway until he saw Cliff joining the other man. The two turned into a side street.
As Hawkeye slouched in prompt pursuit, he noticed two rowdies detach themselves from a group on a corner. This pair followed the direction that Cliff had taken. Hawkeye became troubled. He had inkling suspicions of a trap.
Reaching the corner, Hawkeye huddled by a flight of elevated steps; looking along the street, he could see Cliff and the other man turning at the next block. Shiftily, Hawkeye headed along the Bowery. His plan was to reach the street below; there to cut over and come closer to Cliff’s path.
This time, it was Hawkeye who was observed — not from the street, but from a cab coming in the opposite direction. A lone passenger, lost in the blackened interior, saw the spotter moving toward his goal.
The driver of the cab was Moe Shrevnitz. Leaning back from the wheel, Moe caught a whispered order. His passenger was The Shadow; Moe maneuvered a prompt turn among elevated pillars and headed back toward the street which Hawkeye had chosen.
Fifty feet off the Bowery, Moe halted. He caught the slight sound of a rear door opening. As he listened, he thought he heard a swish in the darkness. Moe waited at this post. He knew that The Shadow was going up ahead.
HAWKEYE, nearing the next street, was puzzled. He had made a bad guess. He had seen no sign of Cliff Marsland crossing at the lighted corner. Hawkeye knew that he should not have allowed Cliff to get so far ahead. He understood now that Cliff must have entered some building in the block that paralleled the Bowery.
Peering from the corner, Hawkeye spied the house that looked suspicious. He saw that two lurkers had edged up to a doorway. The man whom Cliff had met must have steered him into that house. The place was covered. Hawkeye moved forward.
Sudden danger prompted him to turn. Swinging, Hawkeye dodged as a powerful watcher sprang upon him. This rogue, stationed at the corner, had seen Hawkeye shifting forward. The two scuffled in the darkness. The muzzle of a gun swung for Hawkeye’s head. Hawkeye’s arm went up; but the warded blow was hard enough to jolt him.
Another figure caught him from behind. Arms pinioned while he struggled, Hawkeye heard a growled order to deliver another blow. Hawkeye ducked, expecting to find the process useless. But no second swing of the rod was forthcoming.
Massed darkness seemingly sprang from the blackness of the corner. A gloved fist swung for the slugger’s chin. Hawkeye heard the crack as the driving punch landed. Wriggling away from his present captor, he saw the man with the gun go hurtling backward to land flat on the sidewalk.
The gorilla who had gripped Hawkeye swung to meet the strange foe from the darkness. This fellow was whisking a blackjack. The weapon was useless. As his startled gaze met the blaze of burning eyes, the ruffian saw a wide swinging arm come sweeping toward him.
The Shadow landed a terrific punch. He had felled the first crook with an uppercut; the second succumbed from a powerful left hook. Yet The Shadow’s full purpose had not been realized. He had sought to dispose silently of these thugs. Instead, the vehemence of his blows had flattened them so hard that their sprawls were audible across the street.
Crooks by the doorway were drawing guns. Others at picket posts were alert as they saw the action of the men across the street. The Shadow drew Hawkeye back into the side street. Posting the little agent there, he crossed and moved away through gloom.
Hawkeye knew The Shadow’s purpose. He was crossing the lengthwise street below the intersection, so that he might creep unnoticed upon the guards who were still peering across toward the corner where two sluggers had dropped unconscious to the darkened sidewalk. Hawkeye drew an automatic, ready to cover when the time came.
CLIFF had gone into the doorway that Hawkeye spotted. The Shadow’s agent had contacted with the guide; the man had led him here and had left him with the terse growclass="underline" “Foist door at de top. T’ree raps den two.”
Unsuspecting, Cliff had entered. His guide, in the street, had shifted to a lookout post while another pair of rowdies had closed in to cover the doorway. Cliff, moving up a flight of gaslighted stairs, had found the doorway in the second-floor hall. He had delivered the required signal.
No answer. Cliff rapped again. He heard a hoarse, whispered voice, apparently, from the keyhole, which queried:
“Who’s there?”
“Cliff Marsland,” responded Cliff, in a low tone. “From Luke Cardiff.”
“Who do you wanna see?”
“Bats Dilladay.”
A bolt drew back. Cliff stepped slightly away from the door while a crack opened and an eye peered through. Cliff had his hands away from his body. No reason to give Bats the idea he had a gun. The voice had sounded suspicious.
The door opened. A hand motioned for entry. Cliff walked in; he looked about as the huddled man who had received him closed the door again. A single gas jet provided a low-turned illumination. Cliff could barely discern the figure of the man who had received him.
Then, as he turned to meet the fellow face to face, the huddled man straightened. His right hand whipped out a shining revolver. Cliff, staring into the muzzle, gaped as he recognized the long-jawed face behind the gun.
“Luke Cardiff!” gasped Cliff.
“The same,” growled the gambler. With his free hand, he bolted the door. “Thought you’d bluffed me, eh? Well, I knew you for a phony. That’s why I pulled the stall about Bats Dilladay.
“Ease back” — Luke was gesturing with the revolver — “because you’re going for a ride. Maybe it won’t end so bad for you if you don’t make trouble. But if you do, Marsland, I’ll drill you and—”
From somewhere below came the muffled report of a gun. Then came other shots in response. Some sort of battle was starting on the front street. For a moment, Cliff tightened, thinking he could spring upon Luke. Then came a sound from behind him; his arms were pinned.