“The name of the dead man,” declared Jennings, quietly, “was Huring. James Huring.”
TWENTY minutes later, Commissioner Barth and Lamont Cranston were riding back to the Cobalt Club. Barth was glum. He had left Cardona at the hospital, to quiz other recovering patients.
“They’re all coming out of it,” remarked the commissioner, “all but the one man we wanted. I wonder, Cranston, why this misfortune should have befallen us.”
“Huring was a crook,” came the quiet reply. “It is better that he should have died than an innocent victim.”
“That is true,” agreed Barth. “We should naturally have expected some deaths among so many patients. I am afraid that Lagwood was forced to leave too much work to that chap Jennings. Yet I must not criticize. Lagwood has gained marvelous results. His work has been magnificent.”
The car was at the club. Barth alighted. Cranston remained. The millionaire, presumably, was returning to New Jersey. The limousine drove off. After it had traveled two blocks in the direction of the Holland Tunnel, Lamont Cranston’s quiet voice sounded through the speaking tube.
Stanley promptly turned a corner. He drove in a new direction and parked at the same spot where he had gone before — the point so near The Shadow’s sanctum. A black shape glided from the rear door of the limousine. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.
CHAPTER XX
STRANGE QUARTERS
CLIFF MARSLAND awakened. He sat up and rubbed his forehead in a dazed fashion. He felt dopey as he looked about. He was in strange surroundings: A room, lighted by a single dull lamp. Windows, below ground, barred with heavy gratings.
Cliff was on a small cot. In the same room were others. He made out the faces of Skeet and the three crooks who had been in the underground hideout. It was then that Cliff began to realize what had happened.
Spud must have engineered the removal of the victims. He had decided that Cliff was one of those overcome by the gas fumes. Cliff grinned. He owed thanks to the injection with which The Shadow had provided him. Moreover, he had recovered in advance of the others.
Though still half groggy, Cliff managed to make a time calculation. It was night; at least twenty-four hours had elapsed since the affair in the hideout. That was it. He had been snowed under for one day. These others would not waken until tomorrow night. Cliff would have plenty of opportunity to escape before they aroused and testified against him.
Cliff arose from his cot. Fully dressed, he moved groggily toward the single door of the room. He tried the barrier and found it locked. He rattled the knob; gaining no result, he returned and sat down on the edge of his cot. He began to study the rigid poses of the men whom he had gassed.
A key turned in the lock. Someone had heard Cliff’s rattle at the door. A solemn-faced young man entered. Cliff stared at him. The man was wearing a white coat. He looked like a physician. He approached and studied Cliff. Since the man did not speak, Cliff took that task upon himself.
“Where am I?” he questioned.
“Never mind,” was the response. “How do you feel?”
“Dopey,” admitted Cliff.
“Weak, also?”
“Yes.”
“Lie down a while. I’ll take care of you later. Don’t worry. You’re all right.”
Cliff caught a glint of suspicion in the man’s eye. He watched the whitecoated visitor turn and go out of the room. The man apparently left the door unlocked. Roused to sudden action, Cliff followed.
Beyond the door, he found a short, stone-walled passage. There was another door ahead. Cliff approached and listened. He could hear a voice on the other side, but he could not make out the words. Phrases were short and interrupted. Then the discourse ended. Cliff heard footsteps moving away; then came the sound of a closing door.
CAUTIOUSLY, Cliff opened his own door and moved through. He found himself in what appeared to be an office. This room also had barred windows. Cliff moved to the opposite door and found that it was locked. He looked around the room. He spied a telephone.
That was why the man had been talking. Making a report — to someone else — a report that might have concerned Cliff. The Shadow’s agent was momentarily dizzy. He steadied; then headed for the table in order to use the telephone himself. He stopped as he heard footsteps from beyond the far door. A key grated in the lock. Cliff dived out through the portal by which he had entered. He closed the door behind him.
With effort, Cliff tiptoed back into the room where the cots were located. He dropped on his own bunk. He was just in time. The door opened and the solemn-faced man reappeared. He came to take a look at Cliff and the others. Without comment, the man departed. This time he locked the door.
Cliff scented danger. He had a hunch that his position was precarious. He felt in his pocket. His revolver was gone. He frisked the rigid forms of the silent crooks. Their pockets, too, were weaponless. Finally, Cliff decided that rest would be advisable. Drowsily, he dropped back upon his cot. Escape still dominated his mind; but it was hopeless for the present.
WHILE Cliff was thus concerned with his strange surroundings, a different episode was taking place in the apartment of Wolf Barlan. There, the big shot had just completed a telephone call. He was hanging up the receiver when the door opened and Spud Claxter appeared.
“I got the stuff, Wolf,” informed the mobleader. “Out of Hoffer’s cellar. Took it to the hideout. We’re all set again. It won’t be no trick to line up that new crew.”
“How soon can you get them?” inquired Wolf.
“Inside an hour,” responded Spud.
“Listen” — Wolf’s tone was serious — “we’re moving out. Get that? Moving out. There’s been dirty work. We’re taking no chances from now on.”
“Dirty work? Who by?”
“This fellow Marsland. There’s something phony about him.”
“He was knocked out with the others.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s waked up ahead of them. You know what that means?”
“That he didn’t get the gas?”
“That’s it. Nobody’s recovered in less than forty-eight hours before this. Here’s a guy that’s back on his feet inside of twenty-four. What’s more, he’s dopey.”
“Shouldn’t he be?”
“No. That gas don’t leave a guy groggy. They come out of it just as fine as when they went under. That is” — Wolf chuckled — “most of them do.”
“Who didn’t?”
“Bud Jardell didn’t. He croaked up at the hospital. I got the tip from the inside man. But let’s get back to Marsland. I’ve got a hunch he’s been working for The Shadow.”
“Marsland? A guy with his rep?”
“That’s just it,” decided Wolf. “It’s a cinch that if The Shadow picked birds to help him, he wouldn’t use guys like police stoolies. He’d use a fellow like Marsland, wouldn’t he?
“Well, there’s one way to find out. That’s to get to Marsland and make him talk. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m through with this place. We’re taking it on the lam. Heading for London later.”
“Then you don’t want the new mob?” inquired Spud.
“Get the mob,” ordered Wolf. “Listen. I’m going to the place where Marsland is. I won’t be the only one there. We’re going to make him talk. Meanwhile, you line up the mob.
“Take the crew to the hideout. Fix them up with masks and bring the gas bombs. You, like the rest of them. Bring all the pineapples. You carry the swag. Come and join up with me.”
“But if The Shadow trails us—”
“How’s he going to trail you if he was using Marsland to get his dope? We’ve got Marsland, haven’t we?”