“And the taxi driver?”
“I’ll pass the word about him. If Cardona is still dumb enough not to know we’re using gas, the taxi man won’t get a chance to squawk. But after tonight, there won’t be much doubt about the bomb business. Fifteen hundred dummies in a theater will tell their own story.”
“Maybe Cardona knows it already. There was a dozen people at Galder’s the—”
“What if he does? He won’t figure the big scale job that’s coming tonight. If he knows already — if he finds out tonight — well, then we won’t have to worry about the taxi fellow. But Bud Jardell, that Cardona knows as Huring, well — it’s going to be too bad for him.”
“After tonight?” queried Spud, his hand on the door knob.
“We’re leaving New York,” chuckled Wolf. “Remember what I said about the United States Mint? Well — that wouldn’t work; but there’s a job that will, even though it ain’t in this country.
“We’re going abroad, Spud. You and me and — well, others that we’ll need. To London. Take it easy for a while; then we’ll tackle the Bank of England. That crib can be cracked when we’ve made up a new supply of bombs. We’ll pick a new crew over there.”
Spud grinned. Then he delivered one more parting remark, based upon Wolf’s previous statements.
“Say,” mentioned the mobleader. “About this inside man up at the hospital. You mean that when Lagwood was—”
“Scram,” ordered Wolf. “I’m taking care of things up there. Lay low until dark, Spud. Then round up your new raiding squad and get them to the hideout. After that, grab any bum gorillas for the outside mob.”
Spud departed. Wolf picked up the telephone. Chuckling, the big shot settled back in his chair, satisfied that all was well. Tonight, so Wolf pictured it, crime without parallel would strike in Manhattan.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SHADOW’S THRUST
DUSK. Cliff Marsland was standing by a table in a tawdry room. This was a place that The Shadow’s agent used for temporary living quarters in the underworld. The door was locked; Cliff was holding a small package that he had brought in his pocket.
An hour ago, Cliff had left the confines of the badlands. Respectably garbed, he had visited the office of an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. There, Cliff had received the package with instructions not to open it until he was safely alone.
Mann served as a contact agent of The Shadow. When Cliff opened the package, he was, therefore, not surprised to find a folded envelope accompanying the small cardboard box that lay within.
Last night, Cliff knew, a crew of selected raiders had met their Waterloo in the service of Spud Claxter. Shock troops eliminated, it was obvious that Spud would have to draft new raiders from his outside crowd. Cliff knew that he was eligible. He had reported that fact to The Shadow.
This was The Shadow’s answer. Cliff placed the little box upon the table. He opened the envelope. He read coded lines that had been inscribed in ink of a vivid blue. Cliff was familiar with the code. He read the message easily, then watched the writing vanish. That was the way with orders from The Shadow. Cliff tore the sheet of paper, tossed the blank pieces into a cracked wastebasket and stood in thought.
The Shadow had planned a clever thrust. The delivery depended upon Cliff Marsland. The agent was picturing the work that lay ahead. He fancied that he would encounter no great difficulty, provided, of course, that Spud chose him to act as a raider. Would that be tonight or later? Cliff considered.
Spud knew where Cliff was located. But Cliff had no idea where Spud could be reached. The mobleader’s orders were to stay either here or at the Black Ship. One thing had bothered Cliff. He imagined that contact with The Shadow might be difficult should he receive a sudden summons from Spud. But that worry was ended.
The Shadow’s instructions had placed Cliff on his own. Should Spud require him for the new band of raiders, The Shadow would know that Cliff had accepted the job. Lack of a call to Burbank would establish the fact. Once with the inner group of mobsters, Cliff could follow The Shadow’s orders.
The task might be easy. If so, Cliff would be able to report after he had accomplished what The Shadow required. The one hitch would be an emergency. Work done, the thrust made, Cliff might find himself in a position from which there was no immediate escape. If that difficulty arose, there would be an out. Cliff smiled as he picked up the cardboard box. Within this container — according to The Shadow’s note — lay an instrument which Cliff could use in emergency. The Shadow had provided for whatever might occur.
Cliff opened the box. Inside was a tiny leather bag. From the bag, Cliff drew a cylinder of metal. It was a hypodermic syringe, fully loaded. Cliff examined it carefully, then replaced it in the bag. He put the bag in his coat pocket.
A cautious knock sounded at the door. Cliff tossed the little box in the wastebasket. He went to the door and growled a challenge. A whispered voice gave a password. Cliff unbolted. A scrawny, pasty-faced gangster entered.
CLIFF knew the fellow. Skeet Wurrick. He realized instantly that Skeet must be a member of the selected raiding squad. Spud had not informed him that Skeet was in the game; but Spud had told Cliff to follow anyone who gave the password.
Skeet beckoned. Cliff followed. They went down the stairs of the rickety building that Cliff had chosen for a rooming place. Skeet glanced cautiously about as he stepped into the darkened street. Then he whispered to Cliff to follow. The little mobster led the way through an alley.
Cliff wondered if The Shadow were nearby. He doubted it. The Shadow probably had other work to do. He had left this task to Cliff alone. The odds were that Cliff could report back. If something went wrong, Cliff could take care of himself, thanks to the completeness of The Shadow’s plan.
Cliff and Skeet reached a touring car parked on the next street. They climbed in and the vehicle set out. Growled voices told Cliff the identity of his companions. Louie, Gabby and Muggsy were the other three who had been chosen to work with Skeet.
Louie was at the wheel. He followed the twisting course that Skeet ordered. When the car came to a stop, it was north and west of Times Square. Louie pulled into a wide, blind alleyway in back of an old garage.
The wall of the building had no windows. No one could have seen the crew that alighted. Skeet used a flashlight. He led the way to a grating and raised the bars of metal. He ordered the others to drop in and push their way through the open window beneath. Skeet followed last.
They were in a portion of the cellar. This part of the garage had evidently been abandoned. Skeet’s flashlight showed where archways had been walled on the right. They followed a narrow passage and came to an iron door that Skeet unlocked. The passage continued on the other side, but at the left were small doors, also of iron. All were closed.
Skeet turned on a light that hung from the ceiling. Its rays could not be seen, for Skeet had closed and locked the outer door. The scrawny mobster led the way to the final door on the left of the passage. He unlocked it, turned on a light and introduced the new crew to a small, stone-walled room, where a table stood in the corner.
Upon the table was a heavy wooden box. Skeet lifted the lid and showed the interior. It was divided into sections like an egg crate. Half of the compartments were empty; the rest contained small objects shaped like pineapples.
“Bombs,” explained Skeet. “Loaded wid stuff dat’ll knock you cuckoo in a jiff. One of dese’ll put you under for two days. Worser dan a sniff of snow. Dat’s wot’s been de matter wid all dem mugs up in de hospital.