A HUNCHED figure was staggering from the side of the hospital. In one hand the man held several dollar bills; in the other, he waved a derby hat. He paused to turn back toward the entrance, where attendants were watching his departure. Then, with a final gesture of contempt, the man staggered to the street.
He passed the parked coupe, muttering to himself and balking in his gait. He stopped suddenly; turned about and looked back. Satisfied that no one was still watching him, he steadied suddenly and laughed. He moved off into the darkness, shuffling out of sight.
“I told you that he was faking, Vincent—”
“So long Doc. I’m following him. Thanks.”
Sayre’s companion opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk. Sayre waited until he had passed from view; then started the motor and drove off in his coupe.
To Doctor Rupert Sayre this episode had been both unusual and important. He had come to the Talleyrand Hospital in response to a telephone request from a friend named Lamont Cranston. On the way, Sayre had stopped at the Metrolite Hotel to bring along a man named Harry Vincent. This had been in accord with Cranston’s request.
Once — it seemed long ago — Rupert Sayre had been saved from death by a mysterious personage cloaked in black. He had never guessed the exact identity of that being; but he connected his mysterious benefactor with a friend whom he had gained at the same period: Lamont Cranston.
Ever since then, the young physician had been ready to conform to any course that Cranston might suggest. He had served this important friend more than once. Thus Doctor Rupert Sayre had become an aid of The Shadow.
HARRY VINCENT, trailing the attendant dismissed from the Talleyrand Hospital, was a young man who had played a much more active part in The Shadow’s enterprises. Harry had been assigned to the task of watching events at the Talleyrand Hospital. Handicapped, he had reported his difficulties to Burbank. His meeting with Rupert Sayre had been the answer.
As Harry moved easily but rapidly along the streets not far from the hospital, he realized that he was trailing a product of the underworld. This was a correct assumption; for Harry was in pursuit of none other than “Skeet” Wurrick. This underling of crime had used the name of Dowther when he had gained the job at the Talleyrand Hospital.
It had required two offenses for Skeet to be fired. His smashing of the statue had been deliberate. Skeet had made it look like an accident. Reprimanded but not dismissed, he had feigned drunkenness in order to carry out Spud Claxter’s orders. Skeet was now bound for the little drug store that bore the name of Hoffer’s Pharmacy.
Skeet made a shifty detour that brought him to the entrance of a blind alley. He ducked out of sight. Harry Vincent, coming from the corner that Skeet had just turned, was deceived by the ruse. The Shadow’s agent kept along the block.
Skeet had not suspected that someone was following him. At the end of the alley, he found a basement window at the back of the pharmacy. He pried it loose, slid his wiry body into the opening and found himself in Hoffer’s cellar. Skeet inspected with a flashlight.
Luck favored the gangster. He found the door of a closet, opened it, and spotted the gallon bottle on a shelf. Skeet recognized the greenish liquid and examined the label. Extinguishing his flashlight, he grabbed the prize that he sought and made his way back to the window. Three minutes later, he sneaked from the blind alley and hastened across the street.
It was then that Harry Vincent spotted him. The Shadow’s agent was returning from the opposite direction. He caught sight of Skeet’s shifty form passing beneath an isolated street lamp. He saw the bottle that the fellow was carrying. Then Skeet reached the corner.
Harry pursued, swiftly, but with caution. He reached the corner and spied Skeet nearly a block away, just about to turn another corner. Harry hurried forward. He was too late. He reached the corner just in time to see a car shoot away from halfway down the block.
The Shadow’s agent was chagrined at his failure. There was only one course left to him. That was a report to Burbank. Harry walked along until he found a cigar store near a corner. He put in a call to the contact man, made his report, and received orders to return to the Metrolite Hotel.
WHILE Harry Vincent was encountering this failure, another agent of The Shadow was at work within the confines of the underworld. Seated at a table in a dive called the Black Ship, a sturdy chap with a chiseled countenance was listening to the boastful talk of a husky mobster sitting opposite.
The firm-faced man was Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent in the underworld. Cliff had gained a name for himself in the badlands. It commanded the respect of tough gorillas. The fellow opposite him — Luke Gonrey — was the type of gangster whom Cliff could make talk freely.
“I’m sayin’ nothin’ to nobody,” Luke was confiding, in a low growl. “But that don’t mean you, Cliff. You’re somebody. I know when an’ how to keep mum; but I know the few gazebos it don’t hurt nobody to talk to — an’ you’re one of ‘em.”
Cliff shrugged his shoulders. A bottle was beside him; he shoved it across the table and watched Luke fill his glass. Cliff knew that something was in the wind. He had been watching for gorillas who were spending money. He had spotted Luke, begun a chat with the fellow and let Luke do the talking.
“I got a good break, Cliff,” asserted Luke. “That’s why I’m tellin’ you about it. Real dough in it. Got some mazuma slipped to me in advance. That means there’s more comin’.”
“It generally does,” observed Cliff. “Sometimes it means a catch.”
“Not this trip,” retorted Luke. “I’ll tell you why. The guy that slipped me the cash” — he leaned across the table and reduced his voice to a whisper — “was Spud Claxter.”
“Thought he was out of town,” responded Cliff.
“Spud?” chuckled Luke. “Guess again. This wad of dough” — he exhibited a bankroll — “means that Spud’s in the city. An’ this green ain’t all fins an’ sawbucks, neither. Say, Cliff — I’m goin’ to wise up Spud. He ought to have you in the outfit.”
“Yeah? What’s the game, Luke?”
Luke grinned.
“Might as well spill it,” he decided. “Spud’s givin’ me half a grand. Two centuries in advance — that’s the wad I just showed you. Well — Spud picked me because I know how to use a smokewagon. No Boy Scouts in his crew. No argument about the dough. He coughed up what I asked for.”
“Not bad.”
“You bet it ain’t. Say — there’s plenty of gazebos would bump off their whole family for half a grand. But that ain’t the point. What I’m drivin’ at is this. If Spud wanted me, he’ll want you. Savvy?”
“For half a grand?”
“Naw. That’s where I was dumb. Thought I was shootin’ high, but found I was low. Say — Spud won’t find no better guy with a rod than you. I’m goin’ to tell him that. Savvy?”
“And what then?”
“You’ll get a bid from Spud. Hold out for a grand. He’ll come through. Then” — Luke’s tone was wary — “you an’ me make a divvy.”
“On the grand?”
“Half of it,” responded Luke, eyeing Cliff warily. “Half a grand is yours. The other half goes two ways. You an’ me, fifty-fifty. Worth it, ain’t it, for the tip?”
“Maybe,” said Cliff.
“Say,” argued Luke, “if Spud come to you straight an’ wanted to talk turkey, you’d hook up with his outfit for half a grand, wouldn’t you? Well — I’m tellin’ you how we can both split half a grand besides.”
“When are you going to see Spud?” questioned Cliff.
“That’s the tough part,” growled Luke. “There ain’t no chance of your hookin’ in on this first job, because we’re goin’ out tomorrow night an’ the outfit’s all set. But there’s more jobs comin’.