The talk turned to the importing business; from that, it swung to Varden himself. By tactful conversation, Harry began to learn facts regarding the associates of Worth Varden. He heard the names of men with whom the importer had been engaged in business enterprises, and he also learned of certain professional men who appeared to be close personal friends of Worth Varden.
During the afternoon, Harry worked on the list which he had thus compiled. He made several telephone calls which brought him further information concerning the men with whom Worth Varden had had associations.
When he returned to the Metrolite Hotel, his stopping place while in New York, Harry went to the restaurant and ordered dinner. At the table, he studied his list to see what work he could do in the evening.
Harry noted one name in particular. It was that of Ruggles Preston. He had heard Varden’s secretary mention that the lawyer was a close friend of Varden’s. Yet from what Harry had gathered, Preston did not represent Varden as an attorney.
One of Harry’s specialties was his ability to visit lawyers. Harry’s home was in Michigan. He had a mythical interest in property which contained gravel. It was an easy matter for him to call upon a New York attorney to discuss the handling of legal affairs pertaining to the property.
Moreover, Harry could create the impression that he was about to leave for Michigan, and therefore desired a preliminary interview without delay. He saw where he could use this plan with Ruggles Preston.
The lawyer’s name was in the telephone book. Immediately after dinner, Harry called Preston’s home. He talked in urgent fashion, and arranged to call upon the lawyer that evening. It was eight o’clock when Harry started from Times Square in a taxicab.
TWENTY minutes later, the cab rolled along a side street toward a large apartment house. Harry, looking from the window, failed to notice a sedan that was waiting by the curb, in the darkness. He alighted from the cab, entered the apartment building, and took an automatic elevator up to Preston’s floor.
Back along the street, men were seated in the sedan that Harry’s cab had passed. They had seen the young man alight at the apartment building. A low voice growled in the darkness. It was the same voice that Worth Varden had heard the night before, from the man who had introduced himself as Joe Cardona.
“Do you think that’s the mug we’re after?”
“Don’t ask me, Ruff,” came a snarled reply. “If it is, we’ll know it.”
“How, Snakes?” questioned the first speaker.
“He’ll be marked,” was the answer. “I got the dope over the telephone.”
“Who from? The same bird that tipped you off to Varden?”
“That’s my business, Ruff. You know where I stand. You know that everything I tell you comes from Gray Fist. You stick to that. You’re getting paid for it.”
“Yeah. I’m getting paid. But I’m not going to quit, whether I get paid or not. Gray Fist has got the goods on me — like he has on everybody else, I guess.”
The two men were sitting alone in the parked car. The driver had left; Ruff and Snakes were in the rear seat. They swung their conversation to a less important topic. Suddenly Ruff silenced his companion as a head appeared by the opened window.
“Who’s that?” questioned Ruff.
“Gowdy,” came the low answer. It was the man who had driven the car the night before. “Listen, Ruff. There was a fellow snooping around here a minute ago. He went up along the street.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. I tipped Caulkey and Jake to follow him. It looked like he was trying to listen in on what you were saying.”
“Stick around, Gowdy. If he comes back, Caulkey and Jake will be on his trail. Give them the word to grab him if he snoops again.”
“O.K., Ruff.”
“Gowdy” sidled away from the car. He took his post beneath the steps of an old-fashioned house. He looked along the street toward a lighted corner. He saw two figures there; they looked like “Caulkey” and Jake.
GOWDY’S speculation was correct. Two rough-faced characters were standing at the corner toward which the car driver had started. They were waiting by the door of a drug store. The man whom they had followed had entered the place.
Neither Jake nor Caulkey could see the man at present. He had sauntered to a far corner, and was loitering there. The gangsters were wisely keeping out of sight, until the man should return.
The man within the store was watching toward the door. At last, convinced that no one was observing him, he looked about for a telephone booth. He saw one, against the side window of the store. He entered it, and closed the door. An automatic light appeared.
The man who was telephoning was a husky chap with a firm, square chin. He was wearing old clothes, which took away the clean-cut appearance which should have been his natural possession. He dropped a nickel in the phone box, lifted the receiver, and paused a moment before dialing his number.
Coincidentally, Jake and Caulkey, the waiting gangsters, had moved down the side street a few paces. The street was dark at the spot where they stood. They could not be seen from within the drug store. As chance would have it, however, the man in the telephone booth was partly visible to the two outside.
Jake gripped Caulkey’s arm. The first mobster had happened to glance toward the window where the phone booth was located. He growled quick sentences to Caulkey.
“Say!” uttered Jake. “There’s the guy! Look! In the phone booth. He’s goin’ to make a call.”
Drawing Caulkey, Jake edged close to the window. Both mobsters watched with avid eyes while the man within began to use the dial.
“Say” — Caulkey’s voice denoted recognition — “I know that bird. It’s Cliff Marsland. I wonder what he’s doin’ around here.”
“Ps-s-t!”
The slight hiss came from beside the two mobsters. Both turned. They saw a man beside them. He identified himself with a short growl. It was the gangster called Snakes.
“Get along, you guys,” ordered Snakes. “I’m watching here. I came up from the car. Get down there and lay for this guy when he comes back. Stay out of sight with Gowdy.”
As Caulkey and Jake moved away, Snakes pressed closer to the window. His form was stooped and hunched. He watched with sharp, beady eyes. His voice came in a low mumble that ended with a chuckle.
While the two mobsters had been identifying Cliff Marsland, Snakes had been observing the actions of the man in the telephone booth. Something that he had noted seemed to please him. He was watching Cliff’s lips — as much as he could see of them. He could not catch the conversation, although he did manage to pick up disconnected words.
CLIFF MARSLAND was talking to Burbank. Completely ignorant of the fact that a man was watching from without, The Shadow’s agent was giving information to the contact man.
“I’m following Ruff Shefflin,” Cliff was saying. “He’s a pretty tough guy. Big mob leader. I’ve got a hunch he may have made trouble for Seth Cowry.”
“Where is he now?” came Burbank’s question over the wire.
“Parked in a sedan near the Mandrilla Apartments,” informed Cliff. “There’s a bad egg with him — a fellow named Snakes Blakey. That’s what gave me the hunch. Snakes is supposed to be the neatest trailer in the business.”
“Have you been observed?” questioned Burbank.
“No.” Cliff’s tone was positive. “I’m going back to listen in again. I’ll call later when I’ve found out whether this means anything or not.”
Hanging up the receiver, Cliff rose to leave the booth. He threw a glance toward the street as he did so, but noticed no one outside the window. Snakes Blakey, wary sneak of the underworld, had wisely eased away to escape notice.