“Will you have it then?” queried Valdo.
“No.” Casper chuckled. “I may be out of New York by tomorrow night. You will come here, Valdo, so I can call you. If I need more time, you can go to Jerwyn, to tell him that it was impossible to gain the money before the weekend. You may promise it surely, by Monday.”
“And after that?”
“You will not see Jerwyn again. Go to that gypsy camp of yours in New Jersey. Lorenna can join you there. Your work will be ended, Valdo. For by Monday” — Casper’s tone was firm and positive — “I shall have the gems which Hampton Uhler bought from Mandrez.”
“It is good,” agreed Valdo. “I made promise — sure — to Jerwyn, that I would bring the money to him on this night. Twenty thousand dollars. I promise. I tell him maybe the other ten; he say that it should be his also. But what you tell me now — I shall tell the same to Jerwyn. It is good. I think he will believe.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes. I have told Jerwyn many time that Rom will always keep the word he give. Jerwyn is gajo, but I am sure that he believe. He will wait tonight. He will be sure that I will have the money.”
“And he will accept the story. He will wait until tomorrow; then until Monday.”
“All Rom keep every promise,” remarked Valdo, “even to gajo, when gajo keep promise too. But Jerwyn — he has not done what he should do.”
“Don’t worry about that, Valdo,” laughed Casper. “Jerwyn is crooked. He has proven it. You owe him nothing. In fact, he has already swindled me out of five thousand dollars. That is evened, however, now that I have learned the facts I wanted.
“Be careful with your story, Valdo. Be careful about talking to Lorenna. If Jerwyn should find you discussing this with her—”
“I shall tell Lorenna only that I go,” stated Valdo. “I shall speak to her in Romany, which Jerwyn, gajo, cannot understand—”
THIS was all that The Shadow heard. An interruption had occurred in the next room. The telephone bell, which Harry Vincent had long since muffled, was buzzing. The Shadow heard its sound despite the earphones.
Removing the instruments from his head, The Shadow placed them on the table where Harry Vincent was still seated. Whispered tones told Harry to listen to the conversation; to record what else was said.
As the agent clicked the light on the desk, The Shadow was moving behind him, toward the telephone.
The receiver came from the hook. The whispered voice of The Shadow spoke into the mouthpiece.
Across the wire came a quiet voice:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
“Report from Marsland. Phone call to Muggsy Wagram at Red Mike’s. Marsland has trailed Muggsy. House three doors below the old Coblenz Hotel. May be hideout of Marty Lunk.”
“Report received. Marsland to stand by.”
The receiver clicked. A black cloak swished amid the darkness. The door of Harry Vincent’s room opened softly and closed without a sound.
Results had been gained within the underworld. Marty Lunk, the man behind Claude Jerwyn’s game, had been uncovered. While Rodney Casper talked with Valdo concerning Jerwyn’s gang connection, the lost link had reappeared.
The Shadow had learned all he needed concerning Casper’s plans. Harry Vincent could add further details in his report to Burbank. A menace was looming in the underworld. The Shadow’s unfinished work remained to be completed.
The Shadow was on his way to deal with Marty Lunk!
CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HIDEOUT
THE old Coblenz Hotel was a deserted structure of crumbling brick that stood within the confines of the underworld. The buildings that adjoined it were squat two story structures that were also in sad need of repair.
No longer used as regular residences, these houses had been occupied by vagrants. Neglected by their owners, the buildings had reached the last state of decay. Only bums who lacked the necessary dime would stay there in preference to a flop house.
Cliff Marsland, loafing at Red Mike’s, had seen Muggsy Wagram answer the telephone, in response to a wave from Red Mike, the proprietor of the dive. Muggsy had left immediately afterward. Cliff had trailed him. He had seen Muggsy enter the third house below the empty hotel.
Cliff’s inference was well calculated. Muggsy would not be calling on a chance bum who happened to be living in the building. The only answer was that this must be Marty Lunk’s hideout. Hence Cliff had mentioned that fact in his report to Burbank.
Waiting at a telephone one block from the old hotel, Cliff had received the return call to stand by. Going back to the old house, he knew that this must mean a quick arrival of The Shadow. Confident of that fact, Cliff decided to learn more.
The Shadow’s agents, though they followed every bidding of their chief, were men who used their own judgment as they operated. Had Muggsy Wagram come here with a crew of mobsters, Cliff Marsland would have been content to wait outside. Positive, however, that no guards were on the job, Cliff crept to the door of the old house and entered.
A dim light, showing from the second floor, revealed a broken stairway. Cliff crept forward. He moved carefully up the steps. Creaks avoided, he reached the top. There he observed the source of the light.
The illumination came from the opened doorway to a room. The door itself had been removed, probably by prowling thieves. Edging to the side of the hall, Cliff reached the opening. He listened.
“SO that’s the story, eh?” Cliff recognized the growl of Marty Lunk. “He wants me up there by ten o’clock. Well — I’ll be there.”
“He says to bring some gorillas with you,” came the tones of Muggsy Wagram. “What’s more, he says you can keep on goin’. The job is set — but it ain’t in New York.”
“Where is it then?”
“He didn’t say. He’s goin’ to talk to you. But the outfit’s all ready, Marty.”
“At Red Mike’s?”
“Naw. I’d be a sap to have ‘em hangin’ around there. Down the alley past the Black Ship — that’s where I’m keepin’ them. They’re tipped to take orders from you.”
“That’s the idea, Muggsy. All right — listen. I’ll slide down there and start out with the mob. See? You go back to Red Mike’s. Mooch around there, like you’ve been doing. It ain’t a good idea for you to go out of town. I may need you here.
“I’ll take the outfit” — Marty’s voice carried eagerness for action — “and I’ll stop at Jerwyn’s on the way. This is good stuff, Muggsy, the job being out of town. I ain’t been in this lousy hideout for no dumb reason—”
There was a sudden break. Cliff Marsland, edging closer to the door, had brought the toe of his shoe against a warped board in the floor.
“Did you hear somethin’, Marty?” quizzed Muggsy.
“No,” growled Marty. “Just getting jittery I guess. Listen, now — you stick around Red Mike’s. Keep waiting there until I call you. Maybe this bunch of gorillas ain’t enough. I said a dozen — you got them — but maybe they ain’t as good as the old crew.
“You can’t count on a green guy, Muggsy, and you don’t know whether a guy is green until you’ve seen him work. Plenty of gorillas say they’re good — but you find out they ain’t. They don’t come around with references — they couldn’t get them from the big shots they used to work for — and they wouldn’t want to carry them anyway.
“That’d be hot, wouldn’t it, Muggsy — the bulls picking up a guy with a gat and a letter of recommendation saying he could handle his cannons—”
Marty’s voice had become louder. Cliff was listening, puzzled. He could not understand this trend of conversation that had come in the midst of serious business. It sounded like a stall for time. One moment later it proved to be.