“Then what?” questioned Homer.
“Then he’ll come here,” said Farley, laughing, “but he won’t get here right away. You’ll be back first. You’ll be here with me — and I’ll be waiting for The Shadow!”
“He’ll get you, Farley,” gasped Homer. “He’ll get you, sure, like he’s got guys before. You can’t double cross The Shadow.”
“Listen, Homer. The word is out. Do you think I’m the only guy that wants to get The Shadow? Not by a long sight!
“There’s five hundred others with the same idea — that is, there will be by tomorrow night. If he gets into this place, he’ll have to fight his way through the best rods in New York.
“You know what we’ll do? We’ll lay low, right here — and wait for the news.”
“I get you, Farley,” said Homer, “but what if he does get through? What then?”
“Huh,” grunted Farley. “What can he do here? Look at these walls. He can’t get through them.”
“How about the door?”
“Let him try it. I’ve got two big smoke wagons that will say ‘No.’ When I open up, boy, I know how!
“He won’t get in this place. If he manages to find his way back, he’ll be ready for the works. He might slip through, but he won’t slip out!”
Homer sat open-mouthed, not only because of the apprehension he felt, but also because of his admiration for Hank Farley’s scheme.
The lone wolf had lined up the hordes of gangdom for tomorrow night. It was an ideal trap.
The Shadow, going forth on a minor skirmish, would encounter a mammoth ambuscade.
Hank Farley puffed his pipe and grinned in anticipation. He was sure of results tomorrow night.
Homer, however, despite his chief’s assurance, still quailed on the corner of the bench.
The worried man dreaded the task that lay before him. For he feared the wrath of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XI
AN INTERRUPTED WARNING
HANK FARLEY had been right when he had declared that The Shadow would be prepared to meet Homer Briggs at the Black Ship.
Early the next evening, a poorly dressed man sauntered into that notorious dive, and sat at a table in the corner of the main room.
While the man was apparently one of the riffraff who assembled nightly in that place, he was actually a person of a different sort.
The face beneath the pulled-down visor of the ragged cap was that of Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s trusted agents.
Tonight’s work was no new experience for Harry. He was one of the eyes with which The Shadow pried into secrets of the underworld.
When he had first done duty for The Shadow, Harry had encountered trouble more than once. But now, a veteran of these adventures, he had learned the art of acting the part of a small-fry crook.
There were many places — dangerous locations — to which Harry had never gone. To those, The Shadow alone could penetrate. But in a gathering place like the Black Ship, Harry had often appeared with impunity, and aided his master.
The Black Ship was a dangerous spot for a stool pigeon. None dared to come there, for various police informants had been waylaid in that dive.
There were numerous stools in the bad lands who had avoided suspicion, but they were superstitious about the Black Ship, and all refused to go there.
Harry had no fear. The fact that stools did not frequent the place made it safer, in a way. Moreover, he was known only to The Shadow, and not to various detectives.
Harry was the operative of a man whose very identity was an unfathomable mystery. The veil of blackness that shrouded The Shadow was a mighty protection to his agent, Harry Vincent.
Last night, Harry had been at the Black Ship. He had caught the subdued buzz that had traveled among snarling mobsters.
Sitting with half-closed eyes, staring blearily at the wall before him, Harry had paid no attention to what was said around him.
When word had been whispered that Homer Briggs would show up on the next evening, Harry had shown no interest. Homer Briggs, the murdered man’s ex-valet, wanted by the bulls!
There had been no talk about The Shadow. That was where Hank Farley had been crafty. Hence, when Harry had reported his evening’s work, he had sent just one message.
He had said that Homer Briggs would be at the Black Ship tonight.
From Burbank, The Shadow’s quiet-voiced contact man, Harry had received instructions to watch, and to report developments.
It was early in the evening, but there was no telling when Homer would arrive. Harry expected a long vigil.
He was slouched low in his chair, affecting the sightless stare of a man overdosed with dope.
The door of the Black Ship opened, and a man sidled in. One glance made Harry alert, in spite of his feigned disinterest.
He felt sure that this man was Homer Briggs. The man looked frightened, but he was making an effort to appear at ease.
A couple of gangsters waved to him in greeting. The man nodded and sat down at a table.
A grizzled gunman walked over to join him. The two began a mumbled conversation.
It was known in the underworld that Homer Briggs had met the St. Louis yegg, Max Parker, here. The death of Silas Harshaw was a subject of discussion in the bad lands.
Many had speculated on the matter of Max’s death. None had any particular desire to muscle in on the opportunity, no matter what it might be. The death of Max Parker had curbed all enthusiasm for any one to test out an unknown enterprise.
The police were on the watch, which made it worse. But whatever the lay might be at Harshaw’s apartment, Homer Briggs was the one man who could tell. Hence he was due for questioning.
In a short while, Harry Vincent discovered that his surmise was correct. He heard the name of Briggs whispered behind him.
Now, Harry’s task was to learn where the man was hiding out. That meant that he must follow Briggs if necessary. He must manage to slip from the Black Ship when a good opportunity presented itself.
ANOTHER gangster joined Homer. The first one arose and strolled to a table near Harry. He buzzed a few words to the men sitting there.
His statement was inaudible to The Shadow’s operative. Briggs had finished a drink and was nervously rising.
It would not do to follow him immediately. Homer had proven to be too much the center of interest here.
A chance remark behind him made Harry prick his ears in hope of unexpected information. A moment later he heard the news he wanted.
“Briggs is a nervy guy,” a voice was saying. “Comin’ here dis way — wid de bulls all trackin’ him. He’s hidin’ out — an’ he oughta keep his mouth shut. But he ain’t.”
“He ain’t been blabbin’ where his hideout is?” came a question.
“That’s just what de guy has been doin’,” said the first voice. “Briggs must be dopey, because it ain’t no phony steer, neither. You know de old hockshop — de one dat Moose Glutz used to run? Dat’s where he is.”
“Where? Upstairs?”
“No. Down in de basement. Moose used to use de place for a storage joint. No windows — nothin’ but a door. It’s a good place for a hideout; but it ain’t sensible to give away his lay like that!”
“Mebbe he’s got his own reasons,” said the one gangster.
Harry recognized the location. “Moose” Glutz’s pawnshop had been closed for several months. So that was where Homer Briggs was hiding!
That was all Harry needed to know. There was no necessity of following the man when he left.
Homer took another drink, then waved good-by to two acquaintances, and hurried from the dive.
It was obvious that he was bound back to his hideout.
Harry waited. He was willing to bide his time, now. The information must go to The Shadow as soon as possible, but there was no reason to excite suspicion.