“Forget Beak Latzo. Forget all of them. Look here, Steve: I was worrying— so were you — when we left the big house to-day. Worrying for fear people would be looking at us. Following us, watching us.
“But it was all fixed in our favor. The car was there ready for a thirty-mile drive to Dupaw. The governor had this swell drawing-room all reserved so we could step out of sight. Not a person on this train knows who we are.
“We’ll step off in New York just like the rest of the passengers. We’ll report to this chap Perry Delhugh just as we would go into a business office. The warden told us to forget the past. We’re going to do it.”
“I hope I can,” commented Steve, dryly. “What’s more I will. Unless Beak Latzo tries to block me. He’ll be expecting word from me, that rat will.”
“May be Beak isn’t in New York, Steve.”
“If he isn’t there, he can be reached at the same old place. He knows I know that.”
“Forget it.”
Jack Targon reached from the upper berth and tossed his cigarette into an ash stand. Steve Zurk arose from the couch and entered the lower berth.
“Well,” he growled, “there’s something in what you say, Jack. The governor gave us a break; this fellow Delhugh is going to do the same. Even the warden helped us out by letting us come into New York on this train.”
“Traveling incognito,” chuckled Jack. “Unannoyed by gentlemen of the press.”
“That’s right, Jack.” Steve spoke as though he had made a discovery. “None of the news hounds got on our trail. What did the warden do? Bluff them?”
“HE talked to them,” returned Jack. “So one of the deputies said. After the reporters interviewed us last night, the warden told them how and where we were going and made them agree to lay off.”
“Like as not they’ll be at the station when we hit New York.”
“I don’t think so. That fellow Burke was the only New York reporter there. We gave him all the interview he wanted. He won’t be likely to hound us.”
“That’s a help. If we can dive out of sight, Jack, it a going to make it easier.”
“No need to dive, Steve. We’ll be real men again. With a chance ahead of us. Lost in the shuffle of New York, like all the other citizens.”
A pause. Then Steve remarked from the lower berth:
“This guy Delhugh must have a lot of coin.”
“I guess he does, Steve. He’s a philanthropist.”
“Hands out a pile of dough to charities?”
“Yes. Runs welfare committees. Gets contributions to worthy causes.”
“An old bloke, I guess.”
“Sounds that way. But he’s only going to place us. All that newspaper talk interested him, and he made an arrangement with the governor. Going to give us a lift.”
“Well, I’d rather be in New York than out in this state. New scenery — big city — well, it makes me feel better.”
“Forgetting about Beak Latzo?”
“You can’t forget that egg, Jack. But I’m not worrying about him. Just remember what I said. Keep mum about him. I’ll be on the level.”
“Good boy, Steve. That’s the way to talk.”
Lights went out. The drawing-room was in darkness as the limited roared eastward. No sound came from the upper berth. Jack Targon had gone to sleep. Steve Zurk, still awake, kept mumbling for a while; then became silent.
In the adjoining compartment, a slight click sounded as The Shadow removed his earphones. Fingers, invisible in the darkness, detached the connection of the dictograph wire.
Through Clyde Burke, one of his secret agents, The Shadow had learned that the ex-convicts would be aboard this train. Clyde, a reporter for the New York Classic, had forwarded his chief the number of the car in which Zurk and Targon were to be located.
Knowing that the train trip would give the former outlaws their first opportunity to discuss their new life, The Shadow had boarded the Eastern Limited for the purpose of hearing them talk. He wanted to gain first-hand knowledge of their opinions.
The Shadow had gained an impression of sincerity from the discourse of both the pardoned men. Though his usual task was to harry men of crime, The Shadow had more than once aided ex-crooks to go straight.
He was ready to do that for Steve Zurk and Jack Targon. That was another reason why he had listened in on their gabfest. A soft laugh told that The Shadow was pleased with his findings. For he had learned of a menace to society with whom he well might deal.
“Beak” Latzo. The Shadow knew of the man. A dangerous mobleader, at present absent from New York. One who was apt to return to Manhattan, now that Steve Zurk was free.
Steve Zurk saw trouble ahead from Beak Latzo. At least, Steve Zurk had expressed that idea to his pal, Jack Targon. The Shadow could see a way to eliminate such trouble.
That way would be to uncover Beak Latzo.
Again a soft laugh whispered in the blackness of the compartment. The Shadow had gained a quest. To find and deal with the menacing mobleader, Beak Latzo.
CHAPTER III. THE NEW WAY OPENS
ON the following morning, a taxicab pulled up in front of a secluded Manhattan residence. The building was a large brownstone mansion, a heritage of the later years of the last century. Yet its well-kept front gave it a modern appearance.
Two men alighted from the cab: Steve Zurk and Jack Targon. Carrying suitcases, they ascended the brownstone steps and rang the doorbell. They were admitted by a dry-faced servant, who nodded as he heard their names.
The menial took the bags and laid them aside. With a bow, he motioned toward a flight of broad marble stairs.
The pardoned men went up the steps, treading upon thick carpeting. They looked about as they went; at the top they stared at each other in partial bewilderment.
Perry Delhugh’s home was a place of magnificence. Marble statuary vied with rich velvet drapings. The walls were covered with thick tapestries. The rugs underfoot were of marvelous Oriental design. The former convicts had stepped into a scene of wealth.
Pausing at the top, Zurk and Targon waited for the approach of a frail, stoop-shouldered young man who was coming to meet them. The new arrival stopped in the hallway and surveyed the ex-convicts through a pair of tortoise shell spectacles.
“Good morning,” he greeted, in a weak-toned voice. “Which is Mr. Zurk; and which is Mr. Targon?”
Steve and Jack introduced themselves. The young man shook hands with each, wincing slightly at the powerful grips of the visitors.
“My name is Benzig,” he informed. “I am Mr. Delhugh’s secretary. If you will come this way, gentlemen, I shall take you to his study. He will meet you there.”
Benzig led the way along a hall. They passed the door of a room that looked like an office, in which the walls were lined with huge filing cabinets. They passed through a small, thick-carpeted anteroom; then came into Delhugh’s study.
This room was furnished in quiet but expensive taste. A huge mahogany desk occupied the center; the chairs were of the same wood. Marble statuettes and jade vases stood upon tables about the room. The door of a wall safe showed beyond the desk.
The walls themselves were paneled with thick tapestry material set in mahogany framework.
Impressed by this setting of affluence, Steve and Jack looked about from spot to spot. When they turned to stare at Benzig, the bespectacled secretary had gone.
“Whew!” uttered Jack Targon. “What a place! There’s been money spent here, Steve.”
“Yeah,” growled Steve Zurk, “and I’ll bet that Delhugh is a worn-out old guy who can’t appreciate it.”
“Probably a dyspeptic.”
“What’s that?”