Cliff Marsland knew the purpose of tonight’s duty. If events followed expectations, it would mark the end of a long campaign to end a series of crimes that still had the police completely baffled.
Houses of the wealthy had been robbed. The intervals between such burglaries had not been long. As Joe Cardona had told the reporters at the morgue, the crooks had shown a surprisingly exact knowledge of the houses which they had entered.
But despite the similarity of the crimes, the ace detective had not been able to put his finger on the marauders. Servants had been quizzed; houses had been searched for clues. Results came up blank.
And Marsland, working for The Shadow, had been busy in the underworld. The bad lands of Manhattan were Cliff’s habitat. There he was regarded as a man of crime; he had the confidence of gangsters who never dreamed that Cliff was an agent of The Shadow. Yet Cliff, although he could accomplish more for The Shadow than a score of stool pigeons could for Joe Cardona, had been unable to trace the crooks.
The intervals between the robberies, though short, were evidently sufficient for the rogues to cover up their tracks. Some mobleader was doing crime in a big way, but Cliff had been unable to spot the man.
Meanwhile, The Shadow had been working among the upper crust of society. A master of disguise, The Shadow could adopt personalities that placed him among the elite. Since the wanted crooks were rifling the homes of the wealthy, The Shadow had chosen his course of investigation among the Four Hundred.
The Shadow had struck a clue. Somehow — Cliff did not know the answer — the master sleuth had learned the identity of the mobleader responsible for these crimes. “Marty” Lunk — a racketeer who controlled a squad of capable gorillas — was the man whose name had been relayed to Cliff Marsland.
More than that: The Shadow had sent word where crime was due to strike. Through Burbank, Cliff had been ordered to station himself outside of the home of Brandley Croman. The house, empty at present, offered easy entry. Yet Cliff would not have picked it as a spot for gangs to burgle. The obscurity of the house was its best protection.
Somehow, Lunk and his crew must have learned that valuables were stored at Croman’s. How had they gained such facts? Only The Shadow knew. At present, Cliff was acting under the final orders that had come through Burbank.
Should Lunk’s marauders appear, they could be easily observed from Cliff’s watching post. Once Cliff saw them, the rest of his task would be easy. Thus soliloquizing, The Shadow’s agent waited in the darkness.
MOTION in the space between the houses opposite. Cliff stared. He was sure that he had caught a momentary glimpse of a figure by the building that he was watching. The dim light from the further street had been momentarily increased by the swinging headlights of a turning taxicab a block away. The form had faded.
As Cliff continued to watch, he decided that he had been mistaken. Lunk would not have sent a single mobster on this task of entry. Nor could a man have faded so completely as had that phantom figure.
Nevertheless, Cliff had seen right. A living person was standing in the space beside the home of Brandley Croman. The figure that Cliff had glimpsed was that of his own chief. The Shadow had arrived before the expected crooks.
It was not surprising that Cliff had failed to view The Shadow after that momentary vision. The Shadow had taken a course that carried him from view. His fadeaway had been straight upward.
Squidgy sounds — inaudible a dozen feet away — were marking The Shadow’s ascent of the precipitous wall. With rubber suction cups attached to hands and feet, The Shadow gained the window of a high built second-story room.
Clinging to the ledge, The Shadow removed the appliances which had served him. A gloved hand pressed a blackened tool of flat steel between the portions of the window sash. The lock clicked open.
The Shadow entered the darkened interior of Croman’s home.
MINUTES passed. Cliff Marsland, watching, saw signs which were plain. Furtive, sneaking figures were entering the space between the houses. While Cliff watched their approach from the farther street, a car coasted silently to the curb of the thoroughfare where Cliff was located. New members of Marty Lunk’s squad alighted. They crept toward the entrance of the alley.
It was time for Cliff to leave. He knew what was coming. In copy of police tactics, the mobsters were forming a cordon. Soon they would be on watch along this street; also along the street beyond.
With shifty stride, Cliff reached the nearest corner. He made for the drug store from which he had called before. Smiling grimly as he dialed a number, Cliff waited until a growled response came across the wire.
“Say” — Cliff paused to feign the dialect of a small fry mobster — “is dis Joe Cardona, de dick?”
An affirmative response. Cliff lowered his voice to a confidential tone.
“Lissen, Cardona,” he said. “I ain’t no stool. See? You ain’t goin’ to find out who I am. I ain’t no double-crosser, neither, but I’m goin’ to squeal on some guys dat tink dey can double-cross me. Savvy?”
“Go ahead,” came Cardona’s voice.
“Dese mugs you’re goin’ after,” continued Cliff. “Dey’re pullin’ de old game tonight. Tink dey’ve got a good crib — an’ dey don’t know I’ve got de lay. I’m tippin’ you off — dey’re on de job.
“De place dey’ve picked is empty. Dere’s a guy lives dere named Croman. Dat’s de name — Bradley Croman. Dey’ve busted in de place an’—”
Cliff emitted a grunt. Shoving one hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, he followed with a series of low, excited growls, which he voiced between his spread fingers. He followed by clicking the receiver on its hook.
As he strolled from the store, Cliff smiled in picturing the effect that the finish of the call must have had upon Joe Cardona. The detective would believe that his informant had passed the word from some phone on the East Side; that the articulations at the finish had been due to the unexpected arrival of some one who had come to stop the call.
Cliff had told enough. Joe Cardona, would never guess the source of the information. But within the next few minutes, the police would be busy with their quick plans to trap the raiders reported at Croman’s.
Cliffs work was not finished. Turning the nearest corner, the Shadow’s agent stepped into a cigar store.
He found a telephone booth. He dialed a number. A voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Marsland,” reported Cliff. “Crew arrived. Information call made. Received at headquarters. Cardona direct.”
“Report received.”
Cliff hung up the receiver. His work was done. He had notified the police; he had reported to Burbank.
Yet Cliff could not understand The Shadow’s purpose. He had expected that The Shadow himself, would enter into this affray with Marty Lunk’s mob.
Even yet, Cliff Marsland did not suspect that The Shadow had entered Croman’s home. Had he known that fact, Cliff would have been more confident as he contemplated the possibilities. He would have known that a band of crooks was due to meet its finish.
CHAPTER III. THE BLACK SCOURGE
A TINY flashlight was flickering in an upstairs hallway. Its rays formed a dollar-sized circle upon the bell box of a telephone. The light clicked out. Hands in the dark worked at the bell box.
Then came silence. After that, a slight swish, as the black-garbed figure of The Shadow moved toward the front stairs of Croman’s home. Glimmers of light showed below. The Shadow watched as they moved into a lower room.
From the darkness of the stairway, The Shadow could pick the exact spot where the crooks were going.