“Same dough for each job. All right. Tomorrow night I buzz in Spud’s ear. Fix it for you. You’ll be in the outfit next trip — an’ I figure Spud’ll have plenty more dough by then. You get the grand. We split half of it—”
“On the first job I’m in on? Only that one?”
“All right,” agreed Luke, reluctantly, seeing he could get no further. “Are you in?”
“Yes,” replied Cliff, “if you tell Spud that I won’t work for less than a grand.”
“I’ll fix that. Listen. Spud wants me to be here tomorrow night. This is where I’ll get word where to meet him. See? I’m to be here every night, because this is the joint where I hang out most of the time.
“Tomorrow, I go out with Spud’s crew. The next night, I’ll chew the fat with you. Right here, at this table.”
Cliff nodded. He made a warning gesture; then arose and strolled from the Black Ship.
Luke smiled approvingly. Good business, not to be seen with Cliff any longer. The gorilla crinkled his roll of bills. He was looking forward to the rest of his five hundred; then another payment, plus a cut from Cliff Marsland.
Outside, Cliff sauntered along until he reached a dilapidated store some distance from the Black Ship. He entered, found a battered telephone booth and put in a call to Burbank.
LATER, The Shadow entered his sanctum to find the tiny bulb glowing on the far wall. His invisible hands lifted the earphones. He heard the prompt voice across the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report,” ordered The Shadow.
The word came through. The earphones moved to the wall. The Shadow did not turn on the blue light after the call was finished. Instead, he uttered a whispered laugh; the token that brought the silence of his departure.
Two reports. Harry Vincent had admitted failure; Cliff Marsland was counting on prospects only. Yet The Shadow’s laugh denoted satisfaction. His keen brain had divined the reason for the theft made by Skeet Wurrick. The information gained from Cliff Marsland was sufficient for his plan of campaign.
The Shadow knew that crime was due. It would strike tomorrow night. When crime arrived, The Shadow would be present at the scene of action.
CHAPTER X
OUT OF THE DARK
EARLY the next evening. Newsboys were shouting the merits of the final editions when Lamont Cranston sauntered from the entrance of the Cobalt Club. The millionaire purchased a newspaper. He entered his limousine, gave an order to Stanley, then turned on the dome light and began to peruse the journal.
The big feature of the day’s news was the recovery of the four patients at the Talleyrand Hospital. Doctor Seton Lagwood had gained an unprecedented triumph. He had varied his treatments during the preceding evening and results had followed.
Shortly before midnight, one of the death sleep victims — Mrs. Tanning — had shown definite signs of life. Her cataleptic condition had relaxed. Respiration had become normal. The trance had changed to peaceful slumber.
At intervals of less than half an hour, the other patients had shown similar response. Then they had awakened, one by one, to stare in bewildered fashion at their surroundings. Doctor Lagwood had remained in attendance. At nine o’clock in the morning, he had allowed Seth Tanning to make a brief statement. The others had also spoken before noon.
Though the recovered victims showed but little ill effect from their experience, none of them could shed light upon the strange event that had overpowered them. They could only remember that they had been playing bridge. It seemed evident that they had lost all recollection of the time period just prior to the fall of the death sleep.
Doctor Lagwood’s statement was a brief one. He declined to discuss the cases until later. He was fatigued and ready for sleep himself. He left instructions to be called if any of the patients showed signs of relapse. Otherwise, he was not to be aroused until eight o’clock in the evening. According to the final newspapers, no call had been necessary. The patients had improved constantly during the day.
Lamont Cranston turned off the dome light as the limousine neared a glittering East Side thoroughfare. When the car rolled beneath the steel structure of an elevated, black cloth came tumbling from a briefcase in the back seat. When Stanley pulled up beside a secluded curb, Cranston’s voice gave new instructions.
THEN a rear door opened silently; a phantom shape emerged and glided off into darkness. Stanley was holding a watch. Two minutes passed. The chauffeur started the car and headed back toward the Cobalt Club.
Narrow alleys; grimy street lamps; fronts of buildings where streaks of light issued through cracked window shades — such were the surroundings that The Shadow had chosen. Skulking forms were moving through the gloom. Pasty, ratlike faces showed at every corner. Yet none of these furtive passers spied the cloaked figure that moved with the stealth of night.
The Shadow had reached the heart of the underworld, that district where every person was his enemy. Yet he remained unseen in the midst of this hostile terrain, moving stealthily toward a desired destination.
Had any pair of beady eyes glimpsed that shrouded passing shape, the alarm cry would have risen on the instant. Rats of the underworld dreaded The Shadow; yet the cowards felt security within their own domain. It was in these parts that The Shadow had been hunted; where he had been forced to use every possible measure to escape the hordes that sought him. A soft laugh, whispered in the darkness of a secluded alley, formed The Shadow’s mirthful recollection of those desperate adventures.
For The Shadow, his presence unknown, expected no molestation. Only when shrewd crooks had scented his approach had he been forced to combat in this region. Tonight, he was on a mission of stealth. Though ready, on the instant, to match any challenge that the underworld might offer, The Shadow was deliberately keeping clear of all encounters. Those would come later — else where.
The Black Ship. The Shadow paused in darkness opposite the notorious dive. His keen eyes, closed to narrow silts, kept tabs on those who entered and left the joint. At last a bulky figure appeared upon the steps. The Shadow recognized Luke Gonrey. Someone had slipped the word to the gorilla. He was on his way to join Spud Claxter’s crew.
Luke was cautious. He looked over his shoulder as he stalked along the street. But he did not spy the black-garbed form that followed him. The Shadow, stealthy as ever, was lost in the surrounding blackness. Even when he glided past lighted corners, The Shadow remained unseen. The only manifestation of his presence was a splotch of blackness that moved across the lighted sidewalk.
The Shadow was working alone tonight. He had left Cliff Marsland out of the game. The agent’s turn would come later. It would have been impossible to bring Cliff along the course that The Shadow — no one else — could follow.
Luke Gonrey reached the back of an old garage. The place was supposedly empty; its sliding doors had long since been ripped away and used as firewood. But the garage was not empty tonight. Luke seemed to know that fact, for he entered through a blackened door.
Edging from a brick wall, The Shadow followed. This course was to his liking. Mobsters had chosen pitch-darkness for their rendezvous. Unknowingly, they had formed ideal conditions for The Shadow.
LUKE blundered into the back of a touring car. A gruff voice challenged him. Luke made reply and was recognized. A group of men clustered close together. Silently, The Shadow approached and stood within five feet of the assembled mob.
“We’re goin’ out in two cars,” announced one mobster. “Louie’s drivin’ the first. Gabby follows with the second. Four in each boat. Louie’s goin’ to pick up Spud. We follow where he leads.”