“ALL RIGHT,” continued Bob. “He snoops in to look for a clew. He doesn’t find any. Why? Because you covered up; and the Chief and I checked up after you.
“Reynold Barker wasn’t hooked up with us regular. His name can’t mean anything, even if The Shadow has found it out. So he missed when he came after a clew. The girl helped, by walking in on him.
“He’s laid off this place now. Maybe he’s trying somewhere else — maybe he’s quit.”
“The Boss is a smart guy, to dope it that way,” declared Briggs, in a relieved tone.
“Call him Chief,” advised Bob. “He likes that better.”
“The Chief, then.”
“Besides,” added Bob, “we’re safe on old Hodgson’s account. We got away with his body without any trouble. Had plenty of time to do it. It fixed every thing for us, because it put you in here — and let us ring in Clink, too.
“Don’t forget that Clink’s been watching in this room every night. He’s seen nothing of The Shadow.”
“Going to keep Clink on the job, if we have to stay a while longer?”
“No!” exclaimed Bob. “It’s all right for him to drop in late at night, while we’re alone. But not with the girl here!
“How would we figure him in this place? That mug of his is all right behind a mask or under the front of a big cap. But if he ever had to show it—”
“You’re right,” admitted Briggs sheepishly. “He’s a good guy, Clink is, but he looks bad.”
“He doesn’t belong here, that’s a bet,” Bob added. “You’re all right, Briggs. As good as the average servant, I guess. But Clink — well, he’s out; that’s all.”
“I hope The Shadow is out,” observed Briggs.
“He is, all right,” said Bob, “but we’re playing it safe. That’s why you and Clink have the job tonight. The Chief and I are laying low.
“We’re playing a safe game, all right. Every one knows that old Galvin’s estate is blooey. No chance of anybody working a phony game like mine just to grab off this joint and a cheesy old country house.
“Old man Galvin sure fooled them! Came near fooling us, too! It took the Chief to get wise to him.”
There was a ring of the doorbell. Briggs grinned as he arose to answer it. He returned shortly with the visitor — a man with a dark overcoat, his chin concealed behind its collar. He also wore a cap with the visor over his eyes.
It was the man who had walked out with Bob Galvin, the night before Hodgson had begun to suspect his new master. The man entered the room with the air of a familiar visitor.
“Hello, Clink,” said Bob.
“Hello,” came the gruff reply. “Same old gag tonight? Stay up and watch?”
“Not tonight,” was the reply. “You and Briggs have a job. A big one. We’ve been waiting for you. Both of you go down to see the Chief, right away.”
Big Briggs was putting on his hat and coat.
“The Chief will tell you everything,” declared Bob. “Get going and do the job right!”
WHEN the men were gone, Bob sat alone, smiling. There was a piece of paper on the desk. Upon it, he drew certain marks, then rubbed them out. He wrote the letter S twice; then erased the letters.
He picked up the telephone book and looked under H. He came to the name Richard Harkness. He repeated the number to himself and closed the book. He glanced at his watch.
“Ten o’clock,” he said softly. “That will be just right — unless I hear to the contrary before that. It looks good tonight.
“Smart of the Chief, figuring that code meant a name. Very, very smart. I didn’t figure it.
“The whole thing fits in with what we’re after. That’s the best part of it. If Harkness doesn’t know — well—”
He paused speculatively. He was remembering a conversation that he had held earlier in the day. This was the first guess tonight — and it appeared to be the best one.
“If we miss this time,” observed Bob, “we’re only started. You can’t beat the Chief. He figured old Galvin’s game before. He’ll get it right again.”
With that, Bob picked up a book and leaned back in his chair. As an afterthought, he placed his watch upon the table.
He leaned back again and began to read, calmly and with apparent interest. At times, he stopped to glance at the watch; and on each occasion, a brutal smile flickered on his lips.
Ten o’clock was approaching. Some dastardly scheme would reach its culmination then. The young man with the evil leer was awaiting the zero hour for tonight’s crime.
CHAPTER VI
RICHARD HARKNESS was a middle-aged architect with eccentric ideas. He was artistic by nature, and had always regretted that he had not become a portrait painter.
Because of his artistic sentiments, he lived alone in an obscure house on the fringe of Greenwich Village. To him the spot was a sanctuary in the midst of Manhattan’s tumult.
Harkness was a bachelor. He usually spent his evenings alone. Knowing his retiring habits, his friends seldom called him on the telephone.
Tonight, Harkness was reading a new book on portrait painting. He sat in his third-story living room — a studio, he called it. The walls were decorated with pictures — some of them painted by Harkness himself.
The room was comfortable, although plainly furnished. It was exceedingly neat. That was due to the attention of the housekeeper who came to the place every afternoon, for Harkness never troubled himself with keeping the place in order.
He, himself, was the one contrast in the room. Sprawled in an easy-chair, attired in a dressing gown, with his gray-tinged hair an uncombed mop, Richard Harkness seemed the personification of carelessness.
Despite his intense reading of the book before him, Harkness became suddenly alert at the sound of a slight noise that came from outside his room. He listened.
A puzzled expression came over his sharp features. He closed the book and walked across the room. He flung open the door and stared down the dark steps to the second floor.
Hearing no repetition of the sound, he closed the door and strode back to the center of the room, turning the leaves of the book to find the page that he had been reading.
Again, that slight sound. Harkness turned. The door was open. He thought, for an instant, that he had seen something move in the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
There was on reply. Harkness strode toward the door.
Suddenly he was confronted by a man who stepped from the stairway, holding a leveled automatic. The man was short. He wore a black overcoat and a cap pulled down over his eyes.
Beneath the cap, covering the man’s chin, was a dark, folded handkerchief.
As Harkness stood stock-still, a second man appeared. The second man was considerably taller than the first, and bulkier. His face was also hidden by a handkerchief that served as a mask, and an automatic was in his hands.
“Sit down,” came a low, commanding tone.
Harkness obeyed. He moved backward to the easy-chair and dropped into it. The men evidently took it for granted that he was unarmed. They were robbers, by their appearance.
Harkness wondered why they had come here. This was a poverty-stricken neighborhood. He realized then that his presence might have led these men to think that he had articles of value in his studio home. Such was not the case.
Harkness felt no great fear, but he was annoyed.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in a slightly sarcastic voice, as the two masked strangers stood before him. “I suppose you are after valuables and money. I have no valuables here.
“There is some money — about thirty-five dollars. You are welcome to it. My wallet is on the table in the corner. Help yourselves.”
“We don’t want your dough,” said the big man, talking in a voice which Harkness could tell was not the man’s natural tone.