Rising unsteadily, Harry shambled away toward the door. He continued his pretense of unsteadiness as he walked down the street.
He went into an alley and gradually quickened his pace. Ten minutes later, he reached a cigar store several blocks from the Black Ship. There, in a phone booth, he dialed a number.
“Burbank,” came the low response over the wire.
“Vincent,” said Harry. “Report on Homer Briggs. Hiding out in basement under old pawnshop, formerly run by Moose Glutz.”
“Were you there?”
“No. I saw Briggs at the Black Ship. He told some one where he was hiding. The news got around.”
“Good. Call again. Ten minutes.”
When Harry made his second call, Burbank had instructions. The man had evidently communicated with The Shadow in the meantime.
He told Harry to go back to the Black Ship. His return there would allay any suspicion that might arise later. It would also enable him to observe if Homer returned.
Harry followed the order that he had received. He wended his way back to the dive and resumed his wavering gait as soon as he approached the place.
He was tottering slightly as he took his place at the table.
A half hour passed.
There had been a stirring in the place during the evening. This increased by degrees.
Harry gradually realized that something was afoot. Usually, the Black Ship was crowded at this hour. Now it was virtually devoid of patrons. What was up?
A nondescript gangster settled on the other side of the table. He looked at Harry and grinned.
“Hopped up, eh?” he questioned.
Harry made no response.
“Guess you’re dead from the neck up,” was the man’s comment.
“Huh?” grunted Harry.
“There’s some life in you,” said the gangster. “Handle a rod, do you?”
“Sometimes,” said Harry.
He was staring ahead, answering the question in an odd voice as though he had heard the words through a dense fog.
“You ought to be out tonight, then,” was the next statement. “This is going to be a big night.”
“A big night?” echoed Harry.
“Sure,” said the mobsman, rising. “They’re going to get a big guy. I’m going to be there, too.”
“A big guy?” asked Harry dully.
“A big guy,” the man repeated, leaning against Harry’s shoulder. “A big, big guy. The Shadow! Ever hear of him?”
“The Shadow!”
THE gunman laughed at the startled tone in Harry’s voice. He did not take the exclamation as anything unusual.
The name of The Shadow was important enough to rouse any dope fiend from a state of coma.
“Yeah, they’re going to get The Shadow,” came the low, distinct words. “You picked a bad night to get hopped up. The smoke wagons are going to boom tonight!
“The Shadow is after a guy named Homer Briggs — and Briggs came in here and spilled the news that he was hiding out under Glutz’s old hockshop.
“The Shadow’s due to crash into a mess of gats, believe me — and my rod’s going to be waiting for him!”
The man was gone, and Harry was staring dead ahead with startled eyes. He saw it all, now!
The Shadow had been tricked. The man in black was trailing Homer Briggs. Harry knew that all too well.
The news had spread throughout the bad lands, and the hordes of gangdom had marked The Shadow for the spot!
The Shadow must be warned!
With this startling thought, Harry almost forgot the part he was playing. He rose steadily; then realized his mistake.
He shifted back into his tottering, uncertain pace. Two weasel-faced individuals — pickpockets — grinned as he went by their table.
“He’s goin’ to help ‘em get The Shadow,” said one, with a raucous cackle.
On the street, Harry staggered a few paces; then, seeing no one, straightened up and increased his stride. He turned down an alleyway and headed for the next street.
Reaching it, he hurried toward a spot where he could make a phone call.
As he reached another alley, he bumped into a man who was stepping toward the street.
“Hey, you!” The fellow seized Harry’s shoulder. “What’s your hurry?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Harry.
“No?” As the question was uttered, two other men appeared. “Well, it looks phony to me!
“We’re looking for stools around here tonight. Maybe you’re one. Let’s take a look at your mug!”
Harry thought quickly. These men were tough mobsters. A delay must be avoided. An encounter might prove disastrous.
He had reached the fringe of the bad lands. A quick dash would mean safety.
Without waiting to reply, Harry swung a clean, swift blow to the point of the man’s jaw. The fellow smacked against the pavement.
To have run at that instant would have left Harry open to gunshots. He knew it well, and so he adopted the opposite course.
He flung himself upon the nearer of the two men, and hurled the surprised mobsman upon his stunned companion. The third was pulling a gun from his pocket.
Harry shot a swift punch past the warding left arm, and caught his opponent in the face.
The second assailant was rising. The odds were impossible for Harry. But he had gained his chance. He dashed along the alley.
A revolver barked behind him. Harry took a zigzag course. More shots followed. A bullet zipped past his right ear. Then came a sharp pain in his shoulder. Harry had been clipped!
He staggered on; then he suddenly lost his footing, and sprawled headlong on the sidewalk of the next street.
He lay prone where he was. Numbed and half unconscious from his fall, Harry realized that his lack of motion might lead his enemies to believe him dead.
He heard the clatter of footsteps in the alleyway. They were coming, after all. Then he heard a shout beside him.
The footsteps stopped. They retreated up the alley. Harry understood that some one had come to his aid; that the gunmen had decided to make a quick departure.
Their encounter had been a chance one. It would have been a mistake for them to remain.
A MAN was bending over Harry. He lifted the motionless form.
Harry felt himself being helped into an automobile. Then his senses faded.
When he awoke, he was lying on a hospital cot. His arm was being bandaged.
The man who had helped him was standing there, watching. Harry noticed that he was a keen-faced chap.
Harry knew that the man had probably told the details of what had occurred.
“Thanks,” said Harry weakly. “Those fellows landed on me hard. Guess they thought I was somebody else.
“They looked tough, so I ran away from them. Never saw them before.”
“How many were there?” the man beside Harry asked.
“Three.”
“What did they look like?”
A sudden inspiration came to Harry. Here might be a chance to save The Shadow!
He rubbed his hand over his forehead as though recalling something.
“I think I know why they grabbed me!” he exclaimed. “They were talking when I bumped into them. I heard them say something about putting a fellow on the spot — tonight—”
“Where?” came the eager question.
“Glutz — something,” said Harry. “I remember now. Glutz’s hockshop. Did you ever hear of it?”
“No,” said the man, “but maybe the police have.”
He was gone for the telephone. Harry sank back, dizzy. His head was swimming. His shoulder pained.
He was incapable of action, and it would be impossible to communicate with Burbank. He had done the next best thing. If a squad of police arrived at the pawnshop, the mobsters would fade away.
Harry leaned his head sideways upon the pillow and half opened his eyes. A slight smile had been forming on his lips.