Outside the building, Cliff took a look around. He saw no one. That was where Cliff had made a mistake in not bringing Hawkeye.
Across the street, a lean, stooped figure chose a better hiding place the moment that Cliff entered the door that led to Duke's present quarters.
Hawkeye would have spotted the observer that Cliff had failed to notice. The new cover that the watcher had taken was deep enough to escape Hawkeye's future chance at detection.
UPSTAIRS, Cliff found a lighted crack beneath a door. He rapped softly; a groan answered him. Cliff opened the door to find a gaslit room where Duke Unrig lay stretched on a rickety cot. The big-shot's body and neck were swathed with bandages.
Glassy eyes recognized Cliff. Panted words gritted through Duke's clenched teeth.
"I'm - through! They - got me, Cliff! The Shadow - he only clipped me! It was - the bulls that did - the rest!"
Cliff took a seat on a battered chair beside the cot. Duke drew pained breaths, he pressed a bandaged wrist against his chest and spoke slowly, but more steadily.
"I got to the apartment," he informed. "I brought along the dough I got for the sparklers. In that big bag -
over there!"
Cliff looked across the room. He saw a package resting beside the suitcase. It was larger than the one that Duke had received at the apartment.
"I made a couple of telephone calls," explained Duke. "One, telling a certain guy where I'd be. The other to a sawbones. He came here to fix me up. A good croaker; but he told me - an hour ago - that I'm through!"
Duke lay back, his eyes fixed to the ceiling. His lips scarcely moved as he spoke:
"Open the package, Cliff. Count the dough that's in it."
Cliff made quick work of the package. He thumbed rapidly through the thick-stacked money that it contained. The bills were of five-hundred and one-thousand-dollar denominations. They totaled a quarter million dollars.
"Two hundred and fifty grand," said Cliff. "What was this for, Duke? The bank job?"
Duke managed a nod.
"Delivered today," he panted. "Like it should be. Put it in the bag with the other dough, Cliff. Take it with you when you go -"
Duke wanted to say more; but the effort was too much. Cliff opened the bag; inside, he saw the hundred thousand that Duke had received at the apartment. Cliff added the new supply of currency. He came over to the cot.
"Give me the lowdown, Duke," he suggested, coolly. "Where'd all this mazuma come from?"
"It's a new racket, Cliff." Duke paused, tried to lick his lips. "A big - racket! We've all - been handling it.
Crime in - crime in -"
Duke coughed as his lips tried to phrase a word. His eyes went wild. He gasped something between his coughs; something about a croaker and a slug in the left lung. The cough changed to a violent choke.
Cliff propped Duke from his pillow.
Duke's final cough turned to a guttural sigh. The dying man sank from Cliff's grasp. Blood foamed Duke's lips; his glazed eyes rolled upward. His shoulders sagged; their weight seemed doubled.
Cliff let the body slump to the creaky cot. Duke Unrig was dead.
ANOTHER pay-off. The last for Duke Unrig. Cliff Marsland turned to eye the big bag that held the money. A mystery stood repeated, on a grander scale. First it had been one hundred thousand dollars for stolen jewels that Duke had never gained.
This time, a quarter million more for a bank robbery that had been a washout! Duke and his crew had not even seen the cash that they were after; yet Duke had received the very amount that he had estimated the job would bring!
"Crime in -"
Duke's last words flashed to Cliff's mind.
Crime in what?
That was the riddle; greater than it had been before. Duke had failed to give the wanted answer.
One thing was certain. Duke had intended Cliff to take away the cash; otherwise he would not have summoned his new lieutenant here. Cliff could remove the money-loaded bag without jeopardizing his supposed position in the underworld. What Cliff did with the money would be his own business.
No one would ever ask. Therefore, as Cliff reasoned, no one would ever guess that he had sent crime's payoff to The Shadow.
Toting the bag, Cliff left the death room. On the street, he gave a signal. It was low, but Hawkeye heard it. The spotter shuffled up beside Cliff, with the query
"Got anything?"
"This," replied Cliff. "Loaded with dough! Whoever Duke sent to my place probably won't know about it. It won't matter if he does. It's supposed to end with me."
After a cautious pause, Cliff gave more details. Hawkeye informed that Burbank had instructed him to handle anything that came from Duke's, since Cliff's place was back in his own hideout.
Cliff slipped the bag to Hawkeye. Again, they parted.
THOUGH Hawkeye was a capable spotter, he needed full concentration to notice everything that went on about him. At present, Hawkeye was too concerned with the heavy bag to think of much else. He did look behind him; but he did not pause long enough to spy the spidery trailer who followed him at considerable distance.
Hawkeye reached the fringe of this shady district. Halfway along an alley, he stopped at a little door. It was the side entrance to a dive that was patronized chiefly by out-of-towners who thought they were seeing gang life in the raw, when they came there.
A few gorillas went there for an occasional laugh; but most of the regular habitues were hopheads, who served as stooges. They were supposed to represent the mobbies who made the joint their regular hangout. The place was called the Rat's Hole, but the underworld had nicknamed it the "Simp Trimmer."
Reporters frequently visited the joint to get human-interest stories. That was why Hawkeye had come tonight. He left the bag in the corner of a back room and did a prompt slide out.
Not long afterward, a reporter named Clyde Burke - an agent of The Shadow - picked up the bag and carried it with him. Clyde took a ride on the subway. He did not notice the lean man with muffled face, who stood on the car platform and watched him like a spider from its web.
After his subway trip, Clyde left the bag in The Shadow's taxi. Moe Shrevnitz, the wary-faced driver, made a quick trip with it; but traffic delayed him more than usual.
For once, another cab managed to keep on Moe's trail. The track was lost for a short time, when Moe picked up The Shadow on a darkened side street; but that delay enabled the following cab to regain the trail a little farther onward, to lose it later.
The Shadow finally left Moe's cab, carrying the bag with him. Moe rounded the block, and unluckily passed the trailing cab that he had lost. A craning observer spotted Moe's license plate; saw that the cab was empty. He ended his chase right there.
Paying his driver, the spidery passenger stepped from his cab and began a slow, methodical inspection on foot. He threaded every street of that neighborhood before he finally went away.
MEANWHILE, a blue light had appeared in a black-walled room. That shrouding black was cloth; the heavy curtains made the room as somber as a forgotten tomb. The Shadow was in his sanctum, the secret headquarters wherein he had mapped so many successful campaigns against crime.
Long-fingered hands appeared beneath the blue light. They held the stacks of bank notes that had been in Duke's big bag. The Shadow piled the currency on a table. Beyond, a tiny spot glowed from the wall. It meant a call from Burbank.
The Shadow reached for earphones. Over the wire came Cliff's report, sent to Burbank by Hawkeye. It included Duke's unfinished statement: "Crime in -" Those words, puzzling to Cliff, carried significance to The Shadow.
Already, The Shadow had divined the reason for the pay-offs. He knew why big-shots had persisted in crime, even when their best schemes had been blocked. There could be only one reason. Behind crime lay an unknown foe, who fostered evil and kept it on the move.