The sight of a uniformed policeman brought a sudden inspiration to Pinkey Baird. He was not in wrong with the police. Perhaps this man was. Why should he let himself be shunted away at the order of a stranger?
Like a flash, Pinkey fell upon the man beside him. Sinewy and wiry, the confidence man was a powerful fighter. He knew that his opponent would not risk a shot.
The swiftness of his attack served him well. With one hand, Pinkey pulled the knob of the door. As his opponent gripped him, Pinkey dove with both hands for the automatic.
The cab was starting forward, its door swinging wide, as Pinkey raised a cry for help. The policeman was dashing for the sidewalk. Pinkey was gripping the muzzle of the gun as he sought to drag the other man toward the door of the cab.
The odds were all in Pinkey Baird's favor. He had raised the shout. His opponent could not stop him now. That gun in the other man's hand would mean trouble for him. It was too late for his enemy to fire, Pinkey reasoned; but in that he was wrong.
A muffled shot occurred within the taxicab. Pinkey's tugging hold relaxed. He toppled away, and plunged headlong through the open door, falling flat in the street.
The door closed, and the startled driver heard a sharp command to drive onward.
Knowing that his remaining passenger was armed, he had no other choice. He slipped the car into gear. The driver did not hear the left door of the cab open and close. The darkened street was filled with stopping cars. The shrill blast of a police whistle sounded from the spot where the cab had been. The way was blocked ahead.
Between two menaces, the cabman stopped his car and crouched upon the driver's seat.
He expected a shot to issue from within the cab.
The shot never came. A husky policeman dashed up to the side of the cab. With heavy hands he yanked open the door. The driver, rising, stared in that direction.
The cab was empty!
Where was the mysterious passenger? People were thronging about the cab. Drivers of other cars were running up. They were talking excitedly about the shot that they had heard; but none could offer further information.
A tall man with a hawkish face picked his way between two stopped cars, and approached the cab. He plucked the policeman's sleeve. The officer turned toward the newcomer.
"Someone left the cab," the tall man announced, in a deliberate voice. "He went out of the door on the street side. Just as the cab started forward."
A driver who had left his car some distance back came puffing up in time to hear the words.
"He's right, officer," the new arrival declared. "I thought I saw some fellow cut in front of my headlights. I couldn't trace him after that. He was headed for the opposite sidewalk. He must have gone down the street."
The statement was logical. It was obvious that the mysterious assailant would no longer be anywhere near this vicinity.
Other policemen were arriving The people crowded about the cab were pushed aside.
Drivers went back to their cars. Bystanders moved to the sidewalk. Among these was the hawk-faced man. He watched until an ambulance had driven away with Pinkey Baird. He waited until traffic was flowing along the street. Then he quietly returned to the Club Savilla.
Ten minutes later, Biff Towley arrived at the entrance to the nightclub. An assistant to the manager drew him to one side as he stepped through the door.
"Trouble out in the street a little while ago," said the assistant manager, in a low voice.
"A couple of tough babies began to shoot it out in a taxicab."
"Who were they?" questioned Biff, in an undertone.
"I only saw one of them," replied the assistant. "He was the fellow who took it. He was in here before it happened, but I didn't shout about it. Thought you would like to know, though, because you met the guy last night. Pinkey Baird, the old con man."
"Pinkey Baird!" Biff's eyes narrowed "You don't know who got him?"
"Nope. I didn't see him go out. You know the way it is with those small-timers. Always battling among themselves."
"Did Pinkey get the works?"
"No. Just a clip in the shoulder. He did a nosedive out of the cab, though, and he was cold when I saw him. He'll be around again in a few days."
Biff Towley was thinking as he walked back to his favorite table. A few days on the shelf put Pinkey Baird out of a job, so far as Biff was concerned. Furthermore, he did not like the idea of taking on a man who had participated in a recent feud.
In a way, Biff was glad that this had occurred tonight. It showed him that Pinkey would not do. Looking up from his table, Biff spied Cliff Marsland. He waved a greeting to his acquaintance. Cliff arose and came over to Biff's table.
"I want to talk to you," said Biff. "I've got something for you, Cliff. A job that's made for you. Want it?"
"Sure thing."
"All right, then. Listen."
In a low voice, Biff Towley began his story. Cliff Marsland listened, nodding his understanding. Both men were intent. Neither noticed another who was watching them from the seclusion of a table beside a pillar. It was the hawk-faced man who had returned from his encounter with Pinkey Baird. Quietly, he surveyed the chatting men. He waited, silent and austere, until the two arose and left the Club Savilla. Then, from his firm, straight lips came a low-whispered laugh that throbbed inaudibly. It was the soundless mirth of The Shadow. He had called the turn. Last night he had observed Biff Towley talking with two men — Pinkey Baird and Cliff Marsland. He knew that one of these was to be selected. He had eliminated Pinkey Baird.
There was a reason. Cliff Marsland reputed gangster, was a man who had a special mission. Presumably a free lance in the underworld, he was in reality an agent of The Shadow.
He had been summoned to make contact with Biff Towley, the very night that The Shadow had listened to the schemes of Glade Tremont and Doctor Gerald Savette.
A new man was being called in by the plotters; and that man was The Shadow's emissary.
Biff Towley had found two who would do. He and Glade Tremont had made their choice — Pinkey Baird. But circumstances had altered that decision. Pinkey Baird was not to be their man.
Instead, Cliff Marsland had received the job.
Cliff Marsland was The Shadow's choice!
Chapter VIII — Orlinov's Castle
Cliff Marsland was seated on a broad veranda, smoking a cigarette. Before him was a wide lawn that ended in a thick clump of trees, cleaved by a narrow road. Beyond that were the rolling mountainsides of the Catskills.
Cliff leaned his head back in his chair and let his eyes rove straight upward. There he saw a wall of gray stone, topped by a thick, projecting turret. This huge building was a replica of a medieval castle. A remarkable place, this large estate situated three miles from the town of Glendale. Cliff had first spied it from the hillside road, the day that he had arrived in Glendale.
It had amazed him then, the gray-walled building with its squat wings and uneven battlements. It looked like the fortress of a baron of the Middle Ages — a sight that would have been commonplace in Europe, yet which was astonishing in New York State.
It had not taken Cliff long to learn the history of the place. It had been built by a wealthy railroad magnate, some forty years before, and had been disposed of by his heirs. The name "Glamartin" was still inscribed over the old stone entrance gate — for that had been the name of the estate. Now it was the residence of Ivan Orlinov, wealthy Russian of the czarist realm, who had become a naturalized American citizen.
To the casual observer, Orlinov's castle was a secluded and placid place. The estate comprised some thirty acres, fenced with a high-spiked iron fence, well posted with signs that forbade trespassing. Besides this barrier, Orlinov employed the services of more than a dozen men, who served in various capacities.