When Cliff reached the street, there was no sign of Snakes. The stoop-shouldered gangster was keeping out of sight behind a row of parked cars. He took up Cliff’s trail after The Shadow’s agent had started along the side street toward the apartment building near which Ruff Shefflin’s car was located.
Cliff was wary as he reached the automobile. He approached cautiously, straining his ears to catch any conversation that might be passing between Ruff and Snakes. As Cliff’s call to Burbank had indicated, The Shadow’s agent had not overheard the preliminary talk between the gangsters. Nevertheless, Cliff knew that two such ruffians as Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey could not be in this vicinity for other than a doubtful purpose.
A low whistle sounded near the sedan. Cliff Marsland barely caught its sound. He looked about, straining his eyes toward the street.
In that glance, Cliff glimpsed Snakes Blakey. Then, in answer to the sneaky mobster’s call, three men leaped from the cover of a house beyond the sidewalk. They caught Cliff Marsland unaware. The Shadow’s redoubtable agent went down under unexpected odds that were too great for him.
The quickness of the encounter was fortunate. These attackers were armed. They would not have hesitated to use their guns if necessary. Cliff was a natural fighter, who would sooner risk death than surrender to such foemen. A swinging hand, however, clipped Cliff a sidelong blow with a revolver. Stunned, The Shadow’s agent offered no resistance. He was shoved, unconscious, into the waiting automobile.
GOWDY clambered to the wheel, expecting Ruff Shefflin to order him to drive away. It was then that an interruption came. Snakes Blakey appeared beside the car and spoke in a low tone to the gang leader.
“Stick here, Gowdy,” ordered Ruff, after he had heard what Snakes had to say. “You Jake — and Caulkey — wait back where you were. There’s a guy coming out of the apartment building. Get him. Know the sign?”
“A gray mark on his sleeve.”
“You can see it when he reaches the light,” declared Ruff. “Bring him along, too — with this bird.”
So saying, the gang leader clambered out of the sedan. He joined Snakes. The two walked away. Gowdy remained at the wheel; Jake and Caulkey moved back to the house where they had watched for Cliff Marsland, and had responded to the signal given by Snakes.
At the corner, Snakes motioned Ruff into a waiting taxi. He gave an order to the driver. As the car rolled downtown, Ruff began to speak inquiringly to his companion. Important though Ruff Shefflin was as a gang leader, he took orders from this sneaky mobster, Snakes Blakey, who represented Gray Fist.
“Where are we going?” questioned Ruff.
“You’re going to scare up the mob,” chuckled Snakes. “You remember those emergency orders I told you to be ready for? Well — I think you’re going to get them to-night.”
“You mean on account of this guy we grabbed?”
“On his account — and maybe more. Listen, Ruff — I watched the guy telephoning, along with Jake and Caulkey. They didn’t see what I saw.”
“What was that?”
“Maybe you’ll know later.” Snakes was cryptic in his snarl. “Maybe — later; I’ve got work to do, for Gray Fist. You’ll have plenty, too, I figure. You be down at the hide-out in the Tenth Avenue garage, where you’ve got Varden. You’ll hear from me there.”
“O.K.,” returned Ruff somewhat reluctantly.
Snakes ordered the cab to stop. He stepped out on the sidewalk, near the corner of Fifty-eighth and Seventh Avenue. Ruff Shefflin barked a new destination to the driver. The cab rolled along.
As a minion of Gray Fist, Ruff Shefflin could make no protest to Snakes Blakey’s guarded statements. The gang leader shrugged his shoulders as he rode southward. His mind reverted to facts that he knew; that one prisoner was already in the sedan up by the Mandrilla; that another might soon be in the bag.
Perhaps it was the actual passage of events that gave Ruff Shefflin such ideas. For while the mob leader was still riding in his cab, Harry Vincent was coming from the automatic elevator in the apartment house where Ruggles Preston lived.
HARRY had learned nothing in his visit to the lawyer. He had discussed legal matters, had artfully turned the talk to tariffs, and thus to importing. He had heard Ruggles Preston mention that he had a friend named Worth Varden who was an importer.
Nevertheless, Harry, when he reached the lobby, decided to put in a call to Burbank. He saw a telephone booth in an isolated corner. He entered it and made his call. In response to Burbank’s quiet query, Harry Vincent reported no results.
Something prompted him, however, to give a brief list of Varden’s friends. He also mentioned that he was at the Mandrilla Apartments, and that he would prepare a complete report for Rutledge Mann when he reached the Metrolite Hotel.
This duty done, Harry sauntered through the lobby. As he went into the revolving door, he caught the reflection of his overcoat in one of the glass panels. He noticed a mark upon his sleeve, near the shoulder.
It looked like chalk — a grayish chalk — when Harry examined the mark in the light beneath the marquee of the apartment house. Harry brushed at it as he walked along. He wondered where the mark had come from. He remembered that he had given his hat and coat to Ruggles Preston; that the lawyer had placed both in a closet, and had later brought them out.
Harry was still brushing at the mark as he neared a parked and darkened sedan by the curb. He stopped a moment by a light just beyond the car, and brushed vigorously at the mark on his overcoat. Then, instinctively, Harry turned.
Two men were leaping from the steps of a house, less than a dozen feet away. As Harry swung to meet the oncomers, he threw himself off guard. The pair of thugs landed upon him with one accord.
Down went Harry Vincent. His swinging fist caught one ruffian in the face. Then Harry’s head whacked against the lamp-post. With a groan, the young man lost a hold that he had gained upon the second enemy.
Jake and Caulkey pounced upon the man whom luck had aided them to overpower. With speed, they tumbled Harry Vincent’s body into the door of the sedan, which Gowdy opened for them. Jake and Caulkey clambered into the car. Gowdy started the motor.
The gangsters in the rear leaned with drawn revolvers above the forms of the two men whom they had captured from ambush, under the orders received from Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey. Cliff Marsland still lay motionless; Harry Vincent was groggy.
The sedan headed westward toward Tenth Avenue. Jake and Caulkey growled and chuckled, while Gowdy drove in silence. The two gorillas were proud of their work to-night. They had captured a pair of men whom they had been set to get.
Yet neither Jake nor Caulkey knew that these prisoners were agents of The Shadow. For that matter, Ruff Shefflin, their leader, was not cognizant of the fact.
There was only one, to-night, who had been shrewd enough to even guess in whose service Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent might be working. That one was Snakes Blakey, the crafty mobster who acted as Gray Fist’s agent in the underworld.
Through Snakes Blakey, Gray Fist had struck the first blow against The Shadow’s cause!
CHAPTER VII
THE HOME THRUST
A FEW hours after the capture of The Shadow’s agents, a large limousine pulled up in front of a Manhattan night club. A tall, dignified man spied the car from the doorway of the club. A smile appeared upon his lips — thin lips beneath an aquiline nose. Sharp eyes sparkled as the gentleman stepped out to the car.
The chauffeur had reached the curb. He opened the door of the limousine, and allowed the waiting person to step in. As he closed the door, the chauffeur questioned the destination.