"Ah! That's why he talked so long and so vaguely, when he made the first call. He asked me to keep speaking, but he didn't say why."
"You know the reason now. Well, Steffan gave it up as a bad job, and headed for Murdock's. Jake went along in another cab. Biff had two men on the job. Jake nudged Steffan into the car, and he wound up in the Bronx."
"Very, very nice," said Doctor Savette. "Well, it's all done now. You told me over the phone that you heard from Orlinov this afternoon."
"Yes," declared Tremont. "I came down on the late train, as you know. I received Orlinov's wire about two o'clock this afternoon. Here it is."
He drew a yellow slip from his pocket, and handed it to the physician. Savette smiled as he read it. He laid the telegram on a table beside him.
"Now about the next job," he suggested.
"I'll take care of that," responded Tremont. "That is, the first part of it. You know my general plan. There are advantages in being an attorney, just as there are advantages to the physician."
"Together," observed Savette, "we make an excellent team."
"Yes, but you are handicapped."
"I haven't shown it."
"I am speaking comparatively, Gerald. First of all, I contact well with Orlinov. He appears as an inventor, and I represent him. Besides that, there is nothing out of the way for me to meet Biff Towley in my office. That is, as long as Biff keeps away from crime that looks too big. All racketeers have their lawyers. It's quite legitimate to represent one."
"You have a variety of clients," said Savette, with a smile. "The best contrast was between Bellamy and Sharrock—"
"Let's not talk about Sharrock," said Tremont testily. "We slipped up with him. We had him where we wanted him, and we let him get away. If it hadn't been for that, we could have closed up long ago."
"Perhaps," responded Savette, in a reminiscent tone. "But why? Circumstances have put us in line for a much greater opportunity. You know how we stand now, Glade."
"Yes. All right, if we take our time. But I'm wondering about the capital."
"Leave that to me. I'll find a way to handle it. You brought in the first. I'll bring in the last." Glade Tremont arose. He walked toward the door, and Gerald Savette followed him.
Lawyer and physician, they appeared a pair of reputable men.
"How is Orlinov making out?" questioned Savette, as they stood within the door. "As well as he claimed he would?"
"Yes," Tremont answered him. "He speaks French very fluently. It has served well." With this remark, the lawyer opened the door. The physician accompanied his guest downstairs. The living room was deserted.
The shade of the side window trembled slightly. It pressed slowly inward until it formed a bulge. From beneath it came a mass of black, which developed into a crouching form. The huddled shape arose and became a tall, imposing figure — a man garbed in a black cloak, whose features were obscured by an upturned collar and the brim of a broad slouch hat. With gliding, silent stride, The Shadow swept across the room. He stood beside the chairs where the two men had discussed their affairs. His keen eyes spotted the telegram that lay upon the table. A black-gloved hand reached forward and picked up the paper.
The message was from Glendale, New York. It was addressed to Glade Tremont, Waverly Building, New York City. It was signed Ivan Orlinov. Its capitalized letters formed this statement:
MODEL OF NEW APPARATUS RECEIVED STOP MAKING FIRST TEST THURSDAY
The gloved hand replaced the paper on the table. Swiftly, The Shadow swept across the room and moved upward beneath the window shade. Thus concealed from view, he drew his form over the sashes, which were at the bottom of the large window.
Clinging, invisible, to the narrow ledge, he pushed the top sash upward. It glided noiselessly into place. There was a scratching sound — scarcely audible — as a thin strip of metal was wedged between the two sections. Under pressure from the unseen hand, the latch on the lower sash closed tightly. The metal implement was withdrawn leaving the window dark.
Batlike, the tall form moved along the wall, clinging to the uneven stone surface. It was totally invisible in the darkness as it began a careful descent.
Then The Shadow stopped his progress and remained suspended ten feet from the ground as stealthy footsteps came along the cement walk beside the house.
"Jake," came a low whisper.
"All right, Biff," was the response short distance away.
"Come on. We're scramming. His nibs has left. All been O.K. in back?"
"Not a ripple anywhere."
The two men sauntered away in the dark. Then the clinging form of The Shadow was again in action. Noiselessly, the man of the dark reached the walk and made his way to the street.
He was a being of silence as he merged into the darkness. Tonight, The Shadow had been a man of stealth. Not even a whispered laugh indicated his departure.
Two men had plotted while their henchmen were on guard. They were supermen of crime, and their underlings were shrewd and watchful.
Yet not one of the four had detected the presence of The Shadow. Silently and invisibly, he had come from the dark to learn the ways of these men of crime. Tonight, The Shadow had withheld his hand. Two men, possessors of tremendous resources, were using their guise of high respectability to further a gigantic scheme of evil. The Shadow, alone, had gained a knowledge of their malefactions. Secretly, working from the dark, he must sap their power until it was no more than an empty shell. Then would The Shadow strike!
Chapter VII — The Shadow's Choice
It was late in the afternoon when Biff Towley, the swarthy racketeer, strolled into the office of Glade Tremont. The visitor's name was announced, and he was ushered into the lawyer's private office. Every gangster of Towley's ilk had an attorney; and even so prominent a man as Glade Tremont was willing to act as legal representative for persons who kept on the shady side of the law. Hence there was nothing out of the ordinary about Biff Towley's visit to this place.
But within the walls of the inner office, where the two men were sequestered undisturbed, the relationship between gangster and attorney took on a new light. Biff Towley had not come here for advice. He had come to make a report, and to receive instructions.
"I've got a good man for you," declared Biff, in a low tone. "Fact is, I've picked two of 'em. It's up to you to make your choice."
"Tell me about them," said Tremont quietly.
"Well," said Biff, "when you told me night before last, that you needed a guy that could handle a rod and act like a stiff shirt, too, I knew it wasn't going to be too easy to get one. You know the kind of bozos I keep in my mob."
Glade Tremont nodded.
"I figured I could spot a guy I wanted," continued Biff, "if I waited around at the Club Savilla. That's my regular hangout, and lots of smooth birds come in there. Well, last night, two of them showed up. Got talking with both. Expect to see 'em again tonight, and I'll sign up the one you want."
"Who are they?"
"One is Pinkey Baird. Looks like a gentlemen, and acts like one. An old con man, resting easy. Good with the rod. I've known him from years back. Just the smooth sort of fellow we want; talks in long syllables and all that."
"Who is the other?"
"I don't know him so well, but I've met him before. He's been out of New York for a while. Cliff Marsland is his name. He did time up in the Big House, but that's pretty well forgotten now. He's been mixed up in a couple of big rackets, and he's always come out O.K. The dicks haven't got a thing on him."
"Does he look the part we want?"
"To the dot. Younger than Pinkey Baird. Poker-faced, but he talks like a college graduate. I guess he is one, for that matter."