“Why not? It pays, don’t it?”
“Sure thing. Well, slide out and see those eggs of yours. Sherry and Pete. Tell Sherry to buzz the dock wallopers and have Pete talk to Mike. Then there’s the gorillas down in that other hideout.”
“I’ll see ‘em.”
Lucky strolled. Beak scratched his big nose and chuckled in admiration of his lieutenant’s methods. Alone in his hideout, Beak was congratulating himself on success that he could already see.
DOWN in the new dive near Sooky’s pawnshop, Cliff Marsland was seated at a table in the corner of the smoke-filled room. Cliff’s face, chiseled and expressionless, gave no indication of the impatience that he was feeling.
Four o’clock had passed; yet Mike Rungel had not arrived. Across the room at another isolated table sat a hunched-up little man who seemed concerned only with a bottle on the table before him.
It was Hawkeye. He, too, had a hopeful purpose here.
The outer door opened. A big, tough-looking rowdy entered and sauntered up to a dilapidated bar in the corner of the room. It was Mike Rungel.
Cliff glanced at the newcomer; then stared in another direction. This was in keeping with arrangements.
Mike had arrived at last.
Rungel went out a side door — one that formed another exit through a passageway. A few minutes passed; then Cliff got up, strolled over to the bar, handed the proprietor a dollar bill and received some change. Cliff took the same exit that Mike had chosen.
Midway down the passage, Cliff stopped by a battered and obscure door. He rapped softly. The door opened. Cliff joined Mike in a gloomy storeroom, where empty bottles lay about in disarray.
“How about it?” was Cliff’s question, as soon as he had closed the door.
“All set,” returned Mike. “Usin’ you tonight, Cliff.”
“What’s the dope?”
“You an’ me’s coverin’ a job up on Forty-eighth Street. Office buildin’ across from de Marcel T’eater. ‘Longside of a garage.”
Cliff grunted.
“What time?” he questioned.
“Nine bells,” returned Mike. “But we get dere just when de crowd’s goin’ into de show. See? An’ we ain’t stickin’ out of Forty-eighth Street, after it’s clear. We’re coverin’ a couple of alleys dat go t’rough dere.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Naw. I gotta get a couple more guys to help out. One to go along wid me— one to be wid you. I seen one bird I know. I gotta dig up annodder.”
Cliff considered.
“Maybe there’s somebody hanging around this joint,” he remarked. “It ought to be easy to pick a guy here.”
“Who’s out dere?”
“One fellow I’ve seen around. A little squirt they call Hawkeye.”
“Is Hawkeye out dere? Say — he’s a foxy mug, dat boy. Dey say he can handle a gat, too.”
“Know him, do you, Mike?”
“Sure. But you can go out an give him de high sign.”
Cliff went back to the main room of the dive. Standing by the bar, he caught what seemed a chance stare from Hawkeye. Cliff gestured toward the exit; then went back to join Mike Rungel.
Three minutes later, Hawkeye joined them.
MIKE RUNGEL did the talking. He sounded out Hawkeye, found the little man interested, then began to loosen with the proposition.
Hawkeye grinned.
“If Cliff’s in,” he volunteered, “it’s good enough for me. Who do I work with?”
“You stick wid Cliff,” returned Mike. “Up by de t’eater. De alley on de left.”
Hawkeye nodded. Mike dug in his pocket and produced a roll of bills. He peeled some off the wad and handed the cash to Cliff and Hawkeye.
“Dat’s de start,” mentioned Mike. “More comin’ after de job. Meet you here, in dis joint, to-morrow. Four bells.”
The group broke up. Cliff strolled out through the exit; Mike followed shortly.
Hawkeye went back into the dive. The little man had caught a secret signal from Cliff, meaning that Cliff, himself, would report the news.
Agents of The Shadow were ready for their later meeting. Details of coming crime were already on their way, to be passed, through Burbank, to The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVI. VANISHED SWAG
SHORTLY after eight o’clock that evening, a taxicab pulled up on Forty-ninth Street, just beyond the entrance to a garage. The driver of the cab chose a darkened spot to make his stop.
The door of the cab opened. A blackened figure edged forth. A shapeless phantom, that form glided across the sidewalk and merged with the front of a gloomy, four-story structure.
This was not the Hanna Building. Instead of going directly to the address on Forty-eighth Street, The Shadow had chosen another office building, even older and more dilapidated, that was at the rear of his objective.
The cab pulled away. Driven by Moe Shrevnitz, a reserve agent of The Shadow, the taxi had served its purpose for the night. From now on, The Shadow intended to move with swiftness.
The building which had been chosen was occupied by unimportant offices that were chiefly vacated for this structure was slated to be demolished. Ascending to the third floor, The Shadow found an office to his liking. The window was unlocked. The Shadow stepped out. He was on the roof of the garage that ran between Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth.
Manhattan’s glow showed The Shadow as a dimly outlined form, close to the wall of the building that he had left. A modern structure, on the opposite side of the garage, blanked some of the city’s illumination.
Hence The Shadow was in semidarkness as he moved forward along the roof.
The front edge of the roof was well illuminated, because of an electric sign on the opposite side of Forty-eighth Street. This was the glittering sign of the Marcel Theater. Red, green and yellow lights, blinking in mechanical order threw an ever-changing glow across the front of the Hanna Building and the garage roof beside it.
The Shadow, however, found a perfect space of full invisibility when he reached the sheltering side of the Hanna Building. This structure was eight stories high. Windows of the third floor banked the garage roof.
There were shafts for light and air that led to the floors below; there were also bridgelike spots between these; and above the connecting braces were third-story windows. The Shadow chose the first crossing point.
WORKING in darkness, he used a thin instrument of steel between the portions of the window sash.
The lock clicked. The lower sash came up. The Shadow entered a darkened office and closed the window behind him.
He next appeared in a gloomy hall. A dull grinding sound told that a night elevator was in operation. The Shadow lingered until he heard it pass above the third floor. Then he moved weirdly along the hall until he found an office numbered 318.
The name of Richard Dokeby was on the door.
The lock gave The Shadow no difficulty. He entered door 318 and found the outer room of a small suite.
Opening a connecting door, he stepped into Dokeby’s private office. He needed no flashlight to find his way about. The blinking glare from across the street furnished a dull but sufficient illumination.
Dokeby’s offices were about midway in the building; their windows opened onto the garage roof. Below the windows, however, was one of the several air shafts. The Shadow could not have entered here from the roof, except by a leap across an open pit.
A study of Dokeby’s offices told The Shadow much. It was plain that the attorney must have been a man long in practice. He had probably occupied these offices years ago and had persisted in retaining them, despite the decadence of the building.