Beneath the grimy, dew-dripping surface of an elevated structure, a hunched-up man was shambling along in inconspicuous fashion. At times, this fellow paused to light a cigarette. The gleam of the match — on such occasions — revealed a crafty, drawn face with sharp eyes that gleamed with shrewd glance.
Each time he lighted a match, this wayfarer kept the flame shielded by his hands. Thus the move enabled him to remain unobserved: but gave him the opportunity to look about for persons who might be watching him.
Satisfied at last that he had escaped all notice, the little man drifted off through an alleyway. Blackness swallowed him.
This prowler through the underworld was not unique. Two blocks away, a man of a different type was also looking for an opportunity to duck out of sight. Strolling along a side street, this second wayfarer came beneath the gleam of a lamp. The glow showed a steady, chiseled face that topped a stalwart frame.
Pausing at the entrance to an alleyway, this man glanced sharply along the course that he had followed.
Then he stepped into the blackness between the space of buildings. He continued his pacing in methodical fashion until he had gone half a block.
The flicker of a match caught his eye. The stalwart man slowed his pace. He stepped into the shelter of an unused doorway.
The man with the match, catching the click of the other’s footsteps, sidled over to the came spot.
“That you, Cliff?” came the little man’s whisper.
“Yes.” The response was a low one. “Anything new, Hawkeye?”
“Goofy Ketch just ducked out of the Pink Rat,” informed the little man. “He’s been palling around with Hunk Robo. Is Hunk down at the Black Ship?”
“Haven’t seen him there.”
“Think he’s over at Red Mike’s?”
“Clyde Burke’s covering there. Reporters get by at Red Mike’s. Burke’s looking for Hunk, like I am. No word from him.”
“There’s only one place they might meet up, then. That new joint in back of Sooky’s hockshop. Let’s ankle over there, Cliff.”
THE two men set out together, silently picking their course through alleyways. Their course showed familiarity with the underworld. Their actions indicated that their quest had been a constant one.
Unlike in appearance, these two were working for a common cause. The little man was known as
“Hawkeye,” a familiar prowler through the bad lands. The stalwart man was Cliff Marsland, a reputed killer. Both were masking their true characters. Hawkeye and Cliff were agents of The Shadow.
With Clyde Burke, Classic reporter, also on the job, Hawkeye and Cliff had been scouring the underworld in search for some trace of Beak Latzo. So far, they had gained no inkling of the mobleader’s whereabouts. Night after night had brought failure in the quest.
On certain evenings, another searcher had also been on the job: The Shadow, himself. Both Cliff and Hawkeye had contacted at times with their chief. Yet no trace had yet been gained. Beak Latzo, if in Manhattan, was well buried.
Lately, The Shadow’s agents had altered their mode of search. They had begun to watch gorillas. This was in accordance with The Shadow’s orders and it showed the craftiness of that mysterious chieftain.
For The Shadow knew that if Beak Latzo should become dangerous he would require the services of mobsters. The best way, therefore, to balk Beak in crime was to look for thugs who might be members of a crew that Beak was forming.
“Hunk” Robo had been picked as a suspicious-looking gorilla. He was one who kept popping in and out; a hard man to follow.
Hawkeye had left the search for Hunk to Cliff and Clyde. He had concentrated upon “Goofy” Ketch, Hunk’s pal. Tonight he had spotted Goofy, but the man had given him the slip.
The Shadow’s agents had neared Sooky’s pawnshop. Here their courses separated. Hawkeye sidled across a street and ducked into the cover of stacked ash cans. Cliff picked the alleyway on which the new dive was located. He strolled along, descended a flight of steps and thrust open a door.
Cliff stepped immediately into a small, stone-walled room. Grog-drinking ruffians, seated about at tables, looked up through the smoke-filled atmosphere to survey the intruder. Faces were challenging; then came recognition. Patrons of the new joint waved in greeting to Cliff Marsland.
The Shadow’s agent strolled over and sat down at a table. He began to chat with mobsters who had recognized him. Meanwhile, he glanced about curiously; as one would when viewing a place for the first time.
Under cover of that natural action Cliff spied the men he wanted. Goofy Ketch and Hunk Robo, brawny, rough-garbed gorillas, were slouched in a corner, chatting as they leaned across a table.
No need to inform Hawkeye. As minutes passed, Cliff knew that the little spotter would be ready. For Cliff, if he had failed to see the men he wanted, would have made only a short stay in the dive. The longer that Cliff lingered within, the surer would Hawkeye be that the quarry had been spied.
Fifteen minutes went by. Goofy looked at a watch; then growled to Hunk. The two mobsters arose and slouched from the dive.
Cliff paid no attention to their departure. But he prepared to leave as soon as convenient. He was merely allowing time so that no one would suspect him of having interest in the activities of Goofy and Hunk.
OUTSIDE, Hawkeye saw the two mobsters appear. The little man gave them leeway. He made no move until both Goofy and Hunk had looked about to satisfy themselves that they were not being watched.
Then, as the pair strolled down an alleyway, Hawkeye sneaked out from behind the ash cans and took up the trail. Stealthy, at times almost furtive, the little man made amends for his slip-up earlier tonight.
Not once did he lose track of his quarry.
Five minutes after Goofy and Hunk had left, Cliff Marsland strolled from the dive that he had visited. He walked two blocks, found a cigar store that had a pay telephone and entered to make a call. A response came after Cliff had dialed, a quiet voice over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
Cliff reported. Hawkeye had gained a trail. His report would soon be forthcoming. In his report, Cliff gave the location of the dive from which Hawkeye had begun the trail. His call finished, Cliff left the cigar store.
SOMEWHERE in Manhattan white hands were busy beneath the flickering glare of a bluish lamp. The Shadow was in his sanctum, that hidden abode wherein he made his plans. A tiny bulb blinked from the opposite wall. The hands reached for earphones.
“Burbank speaking,” came a voice.
“Report,” whispered The Shadow.
The report came. Word from Cliff; none as yet from Hawkeye. The Shadow hissed instructions. The earphones clattered; the little bulb went out. Then the blue light clicked. The sanctum was in darkness. A swish announced The Shadow’s departure.
Fifteen minutes later, a blackened shape glided beneath the glow of a street lamp in the vicinity of Sooky’s pawnshop. That was a momentary manifestation of The Shadow’s mist-enshrouded presence.
Later, the same figure appeared weirdly at the entrance of an alleyway. It vanished into darkness. One minute passed; then a slight hiss came through gloom. A match flickered: Hawkeye’s signal.
The trailing agent had reported to Burbank. He had been instructed to contact with The Shadow at this point. As his match glimmered out, Hawkeye sensed a swish closed by. He heard a whispered voice:
“Report.”
“Trailed them to the first alley past the old Midway Garage,” informed Hawkeye, cautiously. “Last house on the right. Guys there waiting for them. They went inside; the other birds moved off.