“That’s right.”
“Have the masks ready, just in case something funny happens. There’s no telling about The Shadow — and the way things are hitting, the bulls are liable to horn in on the game, too. That’s why I want the crew to be ready with the pineapples.”
“I get you.”
“All right. Scram.”
Spud left. Wolf put in a hurried phone call, scowling as he made short, disgruntled statements. That completed, the big shot moved about, packed a bag and left the apartment.
MEANWHILE, a trim coupe came to a stop near Hoffer’s Pharmacy. The Shadow had abandoned his limousine. He had sent Stanley back to New Jersey. Swiftly, The Shadow entered the blind alley and made his way into Hoffer’s cellar. His light glimmered on the shelf of the closet. The bottle of neutralizer was gone. A grim laugh whispered from The Shadow’s lips.
The Shadow moved from the cellar. He regained the coupe and drove eastward. The next token of his mysterious presence came when Joe Cardona, slouching in a corridor of the Talleyrand Hospital, received a summons from an attendant.
“Someone on the wire, sir,” was the information. “Detective headquarters, they said.”
Joe followed the attendant. He picked up the hanging receiver of the telephone and growled a hello. He expected to hear the response of some dick at headquarters. Instead, he caught the tones of a sinister voice. For a moment, Cardona stiffened like a victim of the death sleep. He knew that whispered tone. The voice of The Shadow!
Steady, hissing words came over the wire. Cardona still stood dumfounded. At last he found his voice, after The Shadow’s speech had ended.
“I get it…” Cardona was gasping. “Right away… Here, yes. About the death of Huring…”
The line was dead. The Shadow’s tip had been given. Cardona hung up and sprang out into the corridor. He hurried at first, then slowed his pace as he reached Doctor Lagwood’s experimental room. He found Jennings there.
“Hello,” growled the detective. “Say, where’s Doctor Lagwood? I thought he was still about.”
“He has left for the sanitarium,” replied Jennings. “All of the other patients have recovered. He required rest so he left as soon as possible. Is there anything that I can do?”
“No,” responded Cardona. “You’ll be here, won’t you, if I come back to make another quiz?”
“On duty until nine in the morning,” responded the interne. “You’re sure there’s nothing—”
“Nothing at all,” interposed Joe. “I’m going down to headquarters. Just wanted to say so long to the Doc before I left. I probably won’t be back until the morning” — Joe was eyeing Jennings while the interne poured a liquid into a test tube — “and I can wait to see Doc until after he comes back here.”
Cardona sauntered from the room. He descended in an elevator. He hurried from the hospital and put in a telephone call. He ordered a squad of men to cover the Talleyrand Hospital, another to meet him for a different mission.
A grim smile had formed upon Cardona’s lips. He had forgotten the unfortunate death of the man called James Huring, who had been the inside crook at Rufus Galder’s. The Shadow had supplied information that would offset the testimony that Huring had never given.
Thanks to The Shadow, the ace detective was on the trail of the big shot; and in his quest for the supermind of crime he had hopes of capturing the lesser lights as well.
CHAPTER XXI
THE FINAL STROKE
“COME along.”
Cliff Marsland looked up from his cot. The man in the white coat had returned; it was he who had given the terse summons. Cliff arose; dizzily for the moment, he straightened and followed the course that the other led. They went through the passage. The man opened the door to the little office and ordered Cliff to enter. Cliff obeyed and slumped into a convenient chair.
The whitecoated man went to the far door. He opened it and Cliff observed the broad, low-roofed space of a cellar room, with a passage beyond it. Then his gaze concentrated on a newcomer who entered the office and stepped forward while the whitecoated man closed the door. Cliff knew that arrival. It was Wolf Barlan, one-time racketeer.
Wolf approached and stood leering. Cliff, his grogginess ended, met the big shot’s gaze. He knew that this man was to be his inquisitor. Wolf had lost no time in making that fact evident. The big shot snarled.
“With The Shadow, eh?” quizzed Wolf. “Well, you’re the mug we’ve been gunning for. We knew somebody gave him the tip-off. We’ve picked you for the guy.”
“I don’t get it,” retorted Cliff.
“You will,” sneered Wolf, “before I’m through with you. You’re slated for the spot. But you’re going to talk first — get me? You’re going to spill all you know about The Shadow.”
Cliff’s reply was a contemptuous smile.
“Grinning, eh?” gibed the big shot. “Well, it won’t be so funny — that mug of yours — when they find you stretched out on a pile of tin cans in some Long Island dump.”
“So that’s where this place is located,” parried Cliff. “I was wondering about that, Wolf. Thanks for the information. I’ll know which way to head when I start back to town.”
“Smart guy, eh?”
Cliff retained his grin. He knew that Wolf wanted to make him talk. The longer that Cliff could stall, the better. His best policy would be to side step all mention of The Shadow. Cliff, despite his predicament, had confidence in the infallibility of his mysterious chief. The Shadow had saved him from death in the past; there still might be hope for the present.
Wolf fumed oaths. He saw that he was getting nowhere. Cliff was ready to face death. He was different from the yellow welchers whom Wolf had cowed in the past. This fellow — the big shot realized it — was no ordinary gorilla. Tough on the surface, cowardly at heart: such was Wolf’s analysis of the average mobsman. Cliff was not of that brand.
“If you talk,” snarled the big shot, with a scowl, “there may be an out for you yet. Savvy? Spill the dope and I’ll give you a break. If you don’t, I’ll have Spud and his crew use you for target practice—”
Wolf broke off suddenly. The outer door had opened. The big shot turned; so did Cliff. Wolf recognized the man who had arrived, but Cliff did not. Tall and dignified, the newcomer wore a suave smile on his lips. It was an expression, however, that Cliff did not like; for the smile was twisted.
“Hello, Doc,” greeted Wolf, shortly. “This is the guy.”
THE newcomer nodded. He closed the door partly, but left it slightly ajar. He had heard Wolf’s final speech to Cliff. He motioned the big shot to one side; then took upon himself the task of quizzing The Shadow’s agent.
“Your name is Marsland?” quizzed the tall arrival, studying Cliff with a shrewd, steely gaze. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Seton Lagwood. Doctor Seton Lagwood.”
Cliff stared in astonishment. Lagwood smiled in dry fashion.
“You are my guest,” purred Lagwood, smoothly. “You have been confined in the cellar of my sanitarium, which is located on Long Island Sound. This portion of the establishment is kept well covered. The actual sanitarium is upstairs.”
“A blind!” blurted Cliff.
“Precisely,” agreed Lagwood. “This gentleman” — he indicated the whitecoated fellow — “is Mr. Carson. I should say Doctor Carson, for he bore that title until he was disbarred for unethical practice. It was then that he took his place as resident physician in my underground hospital.”
Cliff stared. Doctor Lagwood continued to smile. He knew that this open form of discussion would produce more results than a tirade of threats. Wolf looked on, half puzzled, half lost in admiration of Lagwood’s suavity.